My Experience at a Dinner for the Hajjis

Love and Peace, Family and Friends.

 

Shalom.  Namaste.  Salaam.

 

I am an interFaith activist.  This means that I help to build bridges between different religious communities.  We often utilise this term of, “building bridges,” in a figurative manner, however, I consider the actual process of building a bridge.  I am other than an engineer, by training, so I am without a formal knowledge of the history and tradition of bridges.  In the contemporary context of industrialised societies, the more appropriate consideration may be “rebuilding bridges.”  However, there seems to be something relevant with the notion of that initial process when a bridge is first built.

 

We may consider the initial basics.  Before the bridge is even conceived, there are usually two communities.  The communities may be located in direct proximity to the location of the intended bridge or perhaps even hundreds of kilometres away from the location.  In addition to the two communities, there usually is a physical divide, something that must be overcome, such as a valley or a river. 

 

So in this process, there is a recognition of a connexion, an intrinsic path, between two communities that is made difficult, or impeded, by a physical divide.  Often, within the InterFaith Movement, we talk about an abstract, intangible connexion between religious communities;  however, with the consideration of an actual bridge, there is the necessity of pragmatic relevance:  there must be some form of pragmatic connexion, often trade, distribution, and/or access to further destinations, that the bridge directly facilitates.  So in this manner, as respective religious communities, it is appropriate for us to consider this pragmatic relevance when building bridges within the InterFaith Movement.  What are our needs?  What are our proficiencies?  How can we directly help each other?

 

I imagine that the actual process of even planning to build a bridge is rather labour intensive.  It seems to involve repeated transversing across the physical divide, or circumnavigating many kilometres across other distant bridges, back and forth between the communities to determine the favourability in building the bridge.  And once building the bridge is determined to be favourable, there is the process of actually building the bridge.  It requires gathering sufficient talent, resources, and labour.  The plan for the bridge should satisfy the current needs of the two communities as well as the expected needs of the two communities for generations to come.  The bridge must be structurally sound and stand up to the natural elements.  There is a need for bridges to endure. 

 

The arduous process of construction continues;  and then, eventually, there is the meeting of the two paths into one continuous path, connecting the two communities with new promise and possibilities.

 

So a few weeks ago, I am looking through my Facebook account and I notice that I receive an invitation to a dinner at a Mosque in the Cleveland area.  Now I am actually a member of a Conservative Jewish Synagogue here in the Cleveland area, however, in the spirit of building bridges, I also “like” and “join” the Facebook pages of additional religious congregations in the Cleveland area and beyond.  And, being involved in interFaith activism here in the area, I also frequently attend events at additional Houses of Worship respectively belonging to different religious communities. 

 

I recognise that I know comparatively fewer Muslims in this area and that there historically seems to be fewer occasions for visiting Mosques within an “interFaith” context.  So I perceive this as an opportunity to strengthen my understanding of, and relationship with, Muslims in the Cleveland area. 

 

The Facebook post describes the dinner specifically as a celebration recognising those Muslims who recently, or previously, travel to Mecca to perform the Hajj.  So given this description, and although I am “technically” provided an invitation, I wonder whether it is appropriate for a “visitor” from another religion to also attend the dinner for the Hajjis.  I post this question on the Facebook page of the Mosque, and the administrator from the Mosque reiterates that the dinner is indeed specifically for Hajjis and those interested in celebrating the Hajjis, although people from additional religions who are interested in learning more about the Hajj experience are also welcome to attend. 

 

I receive the message.  There is an absence of intent in holding an “interFaith dialogue” at this specific event.  It is more “unilateral.”  Yet, I am genuinely interested in learning more about the Hajj and the experience of the Hajjis.  So, although it may be a stretch, I perceive that I qualify within the latter category described, and I decide to attend the dinner for the Hajjis.  I make it official and I click the “Will Be Attending” icon on the Facebook page of the Mosque.  It may seem like a very minute gesture, yet within the context of building relationships between strangers (and even enemies), millennia of Peace are predicated upon small symbolic gestures.  In clicking the “Attend” icon, I make a commitment.  And it is incumbent upon me to fulfil that promise in order to build greater trust in this relationship.

 

Or perhaps I am simply suffering from an inflated ego.

 

A number of days pass at it is the Friday before the dinner for the Hajjis (scheduled for Sunday).  The weather in Northeast Ohio is somewhat colder than in previous weeks.  It is a little before noon and I am driving towards my Baha’i friend’s apartment building to meet him for lunch.  On the way, I notice that my car seems to be having difficulty in shifting gears.  I am able to make it to my friend’s building and we have lunch.  On the way back to my apartment, the circumstances become more dramatic;  there is difficulty getting past 25 MPH.  I arrive at my apartment building and park for the day.

 

In the morning, I wake up and plan to leave for Shabbat morning services.  I exit the parking lot and my car refuses to even reach 10 MPH.  I travel for approximately 100 meters, and I circle around in another parking lot and return to my apartment building.  I think, “Perhaps my car simply needs to warm up.”  So I wait in the parking lot and let the car engine run for a while.  After about 15 minutes, I try again.  And again, I am unable to reach 10 MPH.  I circle again and return to my apartment building, except my car is unable to even pass the slight incline into the parking lot.  I sit in my car, situated amidst the driveway and the right lane of the road.  After a few minutes, I am able to cajole my car into the parking lot.  “Perhaps my car simply needs to warm up some more.” 

 

It seems important for me to attend services particularly for this Shabbat.  In speaking with another of my friends the previous day, he mentions the expectation of me seeing his parents in Shul during Shabbat, and I agree.  Again, I implicitly make a commitment.  And although it may seem minuscule, I experience the responsibility in fulfilling that promise.  So as I sit in my car outside my apartment building, and as I think about simply returning to my apartment, I think about the commitment that I make and the importance of me attending Shul.  I try for a third time.

 

On this third try, I am able to reach close to 20 MPH, and I decide to travel the distance to the Synagogue.  By the time I make it to the services, the Haftorah is being recited.  However, after the services, I am able to meet and speak with friends, including my friend’s parents.  After Kiddush, I am able to return to my apartment and spend the rest of the day quietly.

 

That evening, I have doubts about my car being able to make it to the dinner for the Hajjis;  the Mosque is located approximately 45 minutes away, West, on the other side of town.  It is also necessary for me, that Saturday night, to conduct some errands which include acquiring hummus and bread for the dinner (it is a potluck).  I consider who, from my family and friends in the area, may be willing to help me in this effort.  I talk with my mother, who is Christian, and ask her if she is willing to help me in this process.  She replies that she is willing to drive me on my errands that evening;  and that we can talk about additional arrangements.  It is difficult for me to perceive of someone else who may be readily willing to provide such support in this endeavour.

 

Now usually our family shares Sunday afternoons together.  So my intended attendance at the dinner for the Hajjis would be delving into that generally reserved timeframe.  We usually meet at my sister’s family’s home, which is approximately 45 minutes away, East of my apartment.  Because of my car difficulties, I would have to rely upon carpooling with our mother, back and forth, to my sister’s family’s home before making the trek to the Mosque.  When I inform our mother about my plans, she then communicates that she has plans at 2:00pm, a memorial service for one of her friend’s parent.  She then states that she is invited to watch the two NFL playoff games later that afternoon and evening.  Although I continue to work towards perceiving a viable possibility, this seems to nix the opportunity of visiting my sister and her family on that Sunday.

 

Our mother and I then discuss the options for me attending the dinner for the Hajjis.  I perceive two basic options in which she is directly involved.  1.)  She offers to drive me to the Mosque, drop me off, and then pick me up from the Mosque.  I respond by commenting that, although I appreciate the offer, I perceive this option as being highly improbable:  by the time she travels the 45 minutes back to our side of town, it would be time to pick me up again and she would miss much of her planned time at her friend’s home, watching the NFL playoff games.  I communicate to her that it would be more feasible for her to simply stay and participate in the dinner for the Hajjis, however, I know that both she and I are uncomfortable with that.  2.)  So, I directly communicate what I perceive as a more viable option:  for me to drop her off at her friend’s home, and then continue to the Mosque, and after the dinner for the Hajjis, return to her friend’s home and pick her up again.  She directly communicates that she is unwilling to do this.  So, I begin to perceive the prospect of me utilising my car and taking the side streets to the Mosque at 10 – 25 MPH.  After we complete the errands on Saturday evening, we agree to abstain from making any specific decision until later on Sunday afternoon.

 

At around 1:00pm on Sunday, our mother gives me a call.  She says that she is debating whether to provide her car to me to drive alone to the Mosque.  She communicates that one of her headlights is out and she is already previously stopped by the police for this.  There is an implicit concern about this issue because of the anticipated potential differences in circumstances between her, as a mature woman of European descent, being stopped by the police and my, as a multiracial man with African descent, being stopped by the police (as well as my history of “run-ins” with the police, however those are additional stories).  Our mother states that if she is able to replace her headlight that afternoon, she is willing to provide her car to me.

 

Given the comparative ambiguity of the circumstances, I consider further the immediate prospect of utilising my car.  I perceive that it may take twice as long to reach the Mosque, so it may be appropriate for me to leave, with my car, at 4:30pm.  I continue with the tentative decision that if I abstain from receiving any favourable news from our mother by 4:30pm, that I may leave at that time.

 

A little after 4:00pm, our mother calls me and informs me that she is unable to replace the headlight;  however, she is still willing to consider providing her car to me to drive, back and forth, to the Mosque.  She suggests that she can drive to my apartment and we can discuss this matter further and proceed from there.

 

Now given my history with our mother (and that is another, multi-volume story), I perceive the potential of a sabotage effort to preclude me from going to the Mosque.  During our conversation on Saturday night, she explicitly states that she wants me to abstain from driving my car.  And she repeatedly makes this statement during our running conversations that Sunday.  So I perceive that, by having me wait for her to arrive at my apartment, she may be planning to refuse to provide me with her car, and then (anticipating my stubborn nature to take my car), park her car in the parking lot to block me in and prevent me from going to the Mosque.  This may seem exceedingly contrived or scheming, however, I may provide that this is historically par for the course.

 

So I wait for our mother’s call and arrival.  The time reaches 4:30pm.  I decide to continue waiting.  As the minutes pass by, I consider that our mother and I are able to improve our relationship to a point of having mutual respect.  I consider that she may have sufficient discretion to abstain from blocking me in the parking lot.  I also consider that, after any refusal she may have in providing me her car, I may simply walk back to my apartment and wait for her to leave before I return to my car and leave for the Mosque (and perhaps I may be somewhat late).

 

The time reaches past 5:00pm and our mother arrives at the parking lot to my apartment.  I walk to her car and we talk about the situation.  She directly communicates that she is willing to provide her car to me to drive to the Mosque.  And I directly communicate my appreciation for her generosity.  We sit in the car and she makes sure that all the paperwork and details (license, registration, insurance, glasses) are in order in case I am stopped.  After we complete the checklist, we leave the parking lot to her friend’s home. 

 

I drop her off at her friend’s home and proceed towards the Mosque.  A few miles along the road, I notice that the gas tank is near empty.  Fortunately I have a little more than enough of a balance in my bank account to acquire a sufficient amount of gas to go to the Mosque and back and leave extra for our mother.  I acquire the gas and I reach the highway.  I cross the river unto the West side of town and proceed along the side streets towards the Mosque.  By this time, it is dark and more difficult to see street names and addresses.  Fortunately again, I actually visit this Mosque on a previous occasion, so I have a good idea of where it is.

 

I arrive at the Mosque and I notice there are a good number of cars parked in the parking lot.  Rather than searching for a closer spot, I park immediately to the right of the furthermost car along the row of parked cars.  I turn my cell phone off and I grab the bag of hummus and bread from the restaurant (I know I am bringing restaurant food to a potluck, however, I am a bachelor and that is about the best I can do right now).  I begin walking along the sidewalk of the Mosque and there are a number of people in the vicinity.  There is a small group of people walking approximately 25 meters ahead of me, who turn left into an entrance of the Mosque.  However, based upon my previous experience of the Mosque, I understand that this particular entrance is situated closer to the prayer hall, and that there is another entrance closer to the multi-purpose hall;  and, although I am drawn to follow the small group directly in front of me, I perceive it more appropriate to rely upon my previous experience and proceed through the entrance closer to the multi-purpose hall.  As I continue walking, I see another group of people moving back and forth at another entrance towards the end of the Mosque that seems to be directly attached to the multi-purpose hall.  However, rather than becoming entranced by this option as well, I turn immediately left towards the entrance in the middle.  This seems to be the most appropriate.  However, there is an absence of anyone else going in or out of this entrance.  The entrance is a glass door attached to a hallway between the two main areas of the Mosque, and I see that there is an absence of anyone in the immediate vicinity.  I begin to consider whether I am making a fool of myself, again, with my stubborn ego.  And as I reach for the door, I find that the latch is unlocked and it opens, validating my estimations. 

 

I turn right towards the multi-purpose room and I immediately glance at people’s feet to determine whether the congregants remove or continue wearing the shoes.  I recall during the interFaith dinner a couple years before, that visitors are invited to continue wearing our shoes within the multi-purpose hall.  However, I am unsure whether this is simply a courtesy provided to visitors or whether this is a general policy for the multi-purpose hall.  So as I am walking towards the multi-purpose hall for this dinner for the Hajjis, I perceive that it is a general policy for the multi-purpose hall, and this seems to be confirmed when I see the congregants wearing shoes. 

 

As I pass by some of the congregants outside of the multi-purpose hall, I raise my hand in salutation.  In previous instances, when meeting with a Muslim (and particularly when writing correspondences), I begin with the customary greeting, “A Salaam Alaikum.”  However, after maintaining this practice over a number of years, it seems as though there is a certain responsibility and expectation that comes with this.  A proclamation of identity and allegiance.  It seems as though Muslims who are just meeting me, seem to be somewhat disappointed when learning that I am other than a Muslim;  as if I am misleading Muslims by providing such a formidable greeting.  And it seems as though Muslims who previously know me, seem to grudgingly receive the greeting but abstain from providing the obligatory response, “Wa Alaikum a Salaam.”  I am aware of many interFaith activists (Muslims and otherwise, each of whom seem to be comparatively more liberal) who utilise the simple salutation, “Salaam.”  Whilst this seems to be less impactful, I proceed with the tentative decision that this may be more appropriate for me to utilise in introducing myself to Muslims.  So, when I pass the congregants in the hallway, I quietly say, “Salaam,” as I raise my right hand in salutation;  and I continue into the multi-purpose hall.

 

When I enter the multi-purpose hall, I notice that the event seems to be well attended, with approximately 80 people in the room.  There is a podium with a microphone to the far left of the room and there are approximately 20 round tables situated throughout the main part of the hall.  To the right, there are two rows of food presented buffet style, already prepared and waiting for the participants.  I notice that the tables closest to the podium seem to be filled exclusively with men and the tables closest to the buffet seem to be filled with women, although it seems that at some of the tables towards the middle, there are couples sitting, or at least mothers with children.  I notice that the vast number of congregants at this dinner appear to be predominantly of Asian descent, compared to being of European or African, or even Mediterranean or specifically Arab, descent.  The general complexion of people in the hall is definitely distinguishable and comparatively darker, with a slight variance amongst the respective complexions.  I compare this to the Synagogue I attend where the vast number of congregants are predominantly of Hebrew and European descent (with the only people noticeably of African descent are one other man, myself, and the custodians);  or even to the local interFaith council, with which I participate, that comprises mostly of Christians of European descent and one Baha’i of African descent. 

 

I quickly try to discern who may be a leader within this event, however, it is comparatively difficult to determine without circulating through the room.  I walk towards the buffet and I notice a mature woman sitting at the end, who seems to be supervising the arrangement of the food.  I approach her, and I tell her, “I am a visitor…,” and then I retrack myself and say, “Salaam.”  I then continue to explain that I am a visitor, and I hand her the bag of hummus and bread, explaining that it is for the dinner for the Hajjis.  She is very polite and smiles.  She hands the bag to a young woman who receives it and proceeds towards the kitchen.  She then refers me to a man standing nearby.  I provide him with salutations, and I explain that I am a visitor at the Mosque for the dinner for the Hajjis.  He affirms that the seating is designated by gender and that I am welcome to find a seat at one of the tables with some of the other male congregants.

 

I thank him for his help, and I proceed towards the tables.  As I walk towards the tables, I try to find a location where I may be less of an imposition, a location where there may be some space and the men may perceive a lack of an obligation to talk with me, unless it is the specific interest of the men to talk with me.  I find a table, near the entrance and towards the middle of the room, that is empty.  I sit down comfortably.  And I am careful in the manner in which I focus my gaze.  To the right are the tables substantially with women, and to the left are the men and the podium.  I focus my eyes towards the higher part of the walls and the ceiling.  I try to abstain “eyeballing” anyone whilst also abstaining from appearing to be exceedingly aloof or arrogant. 

 

The food has yet to be served and it seems as though people are simply engaged within casual conversation.  After a few moments, a man approaches the podium and makes an announcement, “Will all the brothers please make your way towards the front tables and fill the seats at the front tables?”  I am faced with another challenge.  I am the person most conspicuously contradicting the policy of “filling up” the tables.  However, I hesitate in directly responding to this prompt and making the presumption that I am included within the consideration of, “brothers.”  I am wearing my kippah, so the congregants may be aware of my Jewishness;  however, I also have a wild afro with some dreads forming, which makes my kippah less obvious.  I am interested in abstaining from “posing” as a Muslim, and even from “posing” as an outsider who is specifically interested in converting to Islam.

 

Ever since I pledge a Greek-letter fraternity, the term, “brother,” carries with it some charged, and often misleading, connotations with it.  After crossing into the Greek-letter fraternity (one of five predominant Greek-letter fraternities specifically established for the interests of men of African descent in the United States), I increasingly wonder whether my fraternity brothers are willing to accept my mother of European descent as my fraternity brothers’ own mother.  This seems to be an intrinsic and immediate commitment and acknowledgment when accepting me and referring to me as, “brother.”  Based upon much of the hostile sentiment that some of my fraternity brothers directly communicate towards people of European descent, I perceive that many of my fraternity brothers may have substantial difficulty in accepting my mother as my fraternity brothers’ own mother. 

 

And similarly too with religion, I am aware of Christians referring to each other as, “brothers” and “sisters;”  and even acquiring formal titles as “Brother,” “Sister,” “Father,” and “Mother.”  I find this particularly peculiar, especially because within the Gospels, Jesus teaches (paraphrasing), “Call no man on Earth your father.”  I understand that these terms are maintained to enhance immediacy between participants, however, I find it rather difficult to refer to people, outside my biological family, with familial terms (I do recognise, however, that all human beings are effectively distant cousins).  It also seems as though calling another man, “Father,” seems to contradict the commandment to (paraphrasing), “Honour your father and your mother;”  it seems to intrinsically undermine the integrity of familial relations (and perhaps this is intended).  There is also another repeated teaching where Jesus directs Christians to assume the humblest position, within a given circumstance, with the prospect of being elevated, rather than the loftiest position and being humiliated.  For someone to approach me with, “Hi, I am Brother So-and-So,” seems very similar to someone approaching me and proclaiming, “Hi, I am your best friend on Earth.”  It is a very lofty proclamation.  It connotes having the experience of growing up with a person and having the same father and/or mother, sharing very personal experiences and circumstances, and being unconditional and irrevocable life partners.  So, it is difficult for me.  Instead, I tend to accept and love people immediately and irrevocably as friends.  And this basically involves the very same characteristics as my familial relations with the simple exception that the familial distinctions are recognised.  In many ways, I am more attentive to strangers and my friends than I am to my family.  And yet, with all this communicated, I tend to recognise these religious/familial terms that people proclaim;  understanding the intrinsic detrimental effect this has upon my familial identity.  Admittedly, beyond the rhetorical semantics, I can probably improve the manner in which I treat both my family and friends;  much like the cliché of the social activist, I have a tendency of overlooking people for the sake of the cause;  ignoring the immediate needs of the people around me for the sake of reaching the primary objective of aggregate compassion and altruism.  Yet I digress.

 

So when the man asks for the brothers to move, as much as I am interested in doing so, I hesitate to presume to include myself within this category.  I stay seated, and I watch some of the men move towards the tables immediately in front of the podium.  I also perceive these front tables as the places of comparative prestige and honour, and I am more comfortable towards the back.  I continue to generally look around towards the podium, and occasionally glancing towards the buffet.  I actually appreciate the comparatively modest dress and hijjabs of the women;  there is less impetus for me to instinctively look at the women, and thus it is easier for me to abstain from doing so.  I do notice one woman without a hijjab who seems to be accompanied with one of the men.

 

After a few moments, the man returns to the podium, and reiterates the call to consolidate the seating at the tables.  Now a person with a more reasonable sense of shame may be embarrassed, however, I continue to hesitate.  I seem to recall him again utilising the term, “brother,” however, I also seem to recall him specifically utilising even more generic language whereby I may more readily include myself.  However, I am comparatively paused with ego and the stubbornness to implicitly announce that the man is indirectly talking to me.  After he makes the second announcement, I make the decision to move, however, I am simply waiting for a long enough period of time where my relocation may be less conspicuous.  And after less than a minute, a group of women walk by the table where I am seated;  and the woman at the end, who appears to be one of the few people noticeably of African descent, directly approaches me.  She is rather gentle and smiling and asks if I would be willing to sit at another table so that some of the women may be able to sit at that table.  I seem to recognise her face as one of the participants in the series of interFaith dinners that previously bring me to the Mosque two years before.  I perceive that there are comparatively few women at the Mosque of African descent, of her age, and who have her complexion, and that she is probably the same woman.  I wonder whether she recognises me;  yet, amidst what appears to be a rather genuine and cordial glance, she abstains from revealing any indication of such recognition (and with my size, complexion, and hairdo, I consider myself to be a rather recogniseable man).  I quickly assent to her request and I leave my seat. 

 

I am now faced with the challenge of transitioning myself to another table and becoming more social.  Immediately as I begin walking to a table closer to the podium, I am introduced to another young man who is standing (I seem to vaguely recall that the woman may actually introduce me to him, as additional people seem to be walking around).  I clumsily introduce myself, “Hi…My name is, ‘Peter’…Salaam,” (although, perhaps the order is different).  He introduces himself as, “Oussama.”  However, I often have difficulty hearing and I have tremendous difficulty with names;  I ask him to repeat himself.  He says, “Oussama…Yeah, I know, it’s a pretty famous name, right?”  I reply, “Actually, I have a friend in law school, over ten years ago, whose name is, ‘Oussama.’  He is from Lebanon.”  It takes less than one minute into the conversation for me to invoke law school.  And although I try to abstain from being ostentatious, I seem to frequently revert to my formal days of legal studies, particularly for someone who protests the US Constitution, refuses to take the bar examination, and officially abstains from practising US law.

 

Oussama has a light-medium brown complexion and his hair is cut short.  As we sit down at the table, I ask him, “Where are you from?”  He responds, “That is a long story.”  He goes on to state that he is originally from Eritrea and spends time in different locations throughout the Earth before arriving in the Cleveland area.  He mentions spending half his life here.  I quickly interject with a light hearted, and well intention response, “Half your life so far…”  I also recall quietly invoking the phrase, “En’sh’Allah” or “God Willing,” however, this is admittedly awkward for me and whilst I am making the interjection, I am criticising myself for the clumsy effort in building the conversation.

 

I reply that I recognise the complexity of the question, “Where are you from?”  Often, particularly when my hair is cut short, people presume that I am one or more of many different races and ethnicities:  I am easily considered of African descent;  when I am in New York City, I am asked by the cabbie whether I am Mediterranean;  when I am in Shul, I am asked by an elderly man if I am Israeli;  I am previously perceived as Latino;  and within my life, I also have the ability to blend amongst South Asians, Persians, and even Pacific Asians.  Yet, ironically, I am more Scandinavian than I am anything else (a fact of which may be difficult for you to evidence until you see me walking down the street, in January, without a coat).

 

Yet, before I share all of these details with Oussama, I simply inform him that I am born within the Cleveland area.  I tell him that I spend some time studying in Virginia and DC and that I am also able to spend time studying in both England and South Africa.  As we are talking, another young man arrives at the table.  He introduces himself as, “Omar,” and I introduce myself.  Omar is comparatively lighter, perhaps of Arab descent, and his hair is cut into short curls.  There is a pause in the conversation.  Oussama is seated to my immediate right and Omar is seated to his immediate right.  To my immediate left, there are two empty seats;  and across the table, there is a middle-aged man sitting with his two elementary school aged sons. 

 

During the pause, I stare towards the middle of the table, again with the intention of abstaining from “eyeballing” anyone or being exceedingly aloof or arrogant.  I consider introducing myself to the middle-aged man, however, there seems to be an etiquette-based protocol that suggests for me to refrain from doing so for the time being.  Perhaps such an introduction would appear to lack genuineness, to be “trying too hard.”  After one or two minutes, Oussama and Omar continue with a conversation, although it is difficult for me to hear the subject matter.  After a few minutes more, the man at the podium invites the participants to approach the buffet and begin serving ourselves plates.

 

At first, the Hajjis are called.  And then the women.  And then the men.  I perceive myself now as an implicit guest of Oussama and Omar, so I await to follow Oussama’s and Omar’s lead.  However, it also seems as though Oussama and Omar are awaiting me to make a move.  I remain seated at the table and I watch the additional men, from the tables closer to the podium, walk past our table towards the buffet.  After another minute or two, all the tables appear to be empty, with the exception of ours.  At this time, another man approaches us and specifically invites us to join the queue for the buffet.  As we are walking towards the buffet, Oussama turns back to me with a smile, and says, “Did you come hungry?”  Usually, as my brother and many of my friends can attest, I tend to immediately retort such a prompt with, “I can eat.”  However, I fumble about with a response, and reply, “I tend to maintain a moderate appetite.”  Whatever.  Oussama seems to be unperturbed.

 

So we stand in the buffet queue.  The two, parallel rows of buffet tables, about 10 meters apart from each other, also seem to be segregated by gender.  There is an initial pause, whilst we queue, as the men in front are taking time to respectively load the plates.  There is a fair amount of space between the men, and I make sure to keep an appropriate distance from the men immediately in front of me (to abstain from appearing to be overly anxious or greedy).  And as I stand in the queue, a number of men begin to walk directly in front of me to reach the beginning of the buffet tables.  Now in previous occasions during my life, I observe how some people respond to such behaviour with a considerable amount of hostility and aggression;  amongst strangers, and particularly within a severely competitive environment, such behaviour may be perceived as disrespectful.  However, when we are amongst old friends, and the environment is congenial, such behaviour may be simply perceived as old friends behaving informally and comfortably with each other, in attending to our own respective needs.  Although I abstain from perceiving any intentional conspiracy, I perceive the occasion of me being tested (if other than by any specific individual or group of individuals, then by the general set of circumstances) to determine how I may respond.  So, some of the men simply grab a plate or a utensil and exit the queue. 

 

Eventually, we arrive at the beginning of the buffet tables.  The buffet tables actually facilitate two queues and Oussama proceeds along the left side of the tables, whilst I proceed after Omar on the right side of the tables.  Oussama hands Omar a plate and Omar hands it to me.  Omar seems to look at the utensils and decides that it is more appropriate for me to grab my own.  I load up on the salad (that tends to be a safe selection when eating amongst men for the first time).  I then notice some hummus.  I help my self to a few spoonfuls of the hummus as well.  As I continue to take additional spoonfuls of the hummus, I become more conscientious of doing so, and I eventually spill a glob on the platter beneath my plate.  Disappointed with myself, I release an involuntary exclamation, “Uhp,” and continue with the buffet.  I glance towards the concluding few tables and it appears the rest of the dishes contain meat.  Being a vegetarian, I tend to avoid meat and so I consider what else I may be able to put on my plate before leaving the buffet.  I see what appears to be a dish of simple bread pastries.  As I lean closer to pick one up, I notice that there appears to be meat within a lower layer of the pastries.  However, it is too late;  by the time I make this discovery, it seems as though my hand is already touching the pastry.  So rather than causing any offence to etiquette, I place the pastry on my plate and exit the queue.  The two rows of buffet tables are situated convergently towards the wall.  I look around, and towards the ends of the buffet tables, to determine whether there are any beverages (I recall seeing the middle-aged man and his sons with cans of cola).  However, I have difficulty finding any beverages.  I do find, at the end of buffet tables, another table with boxes of pizza.  So I help myself to an available slice, which actually turns out to be two slices, of cheese pizza;  and I return to the table.

 

When I return to the table, I notice that there is another man sitting in the chair immediately left of Oussama, where I am previously seated.  He seems to be a few years older than Oussama and Omar, however, he also may be a few years younger than me.  He has a larger frame and is wearing a black, leather jacket.  His hair is somewhat longer, straight, and slicked back.  His complexion is also lighter and it occurs to me that he may be Arab or Persian.  I perceive this as another implicit, and perhaps unintentional, test.  I sit immediately next to him, on his left;  and I introduce myself, “Peter.”  “Sam.”  I may even forget to offer, “Salaam,” and that is my fault.

 

As I recall, Sam seems to be engaged in a conversation with Oussama and Omar.  Sam is a little more assertive and forthright.  Indeed, it seems as though he is speaking and Oussama and Omar are listening.  The middle-aged man is continuing quietly with his sons.  It is somewhat difficult for me to make my way within the conversation, so I simply concentrate upon my salad.

 

After a few minutes, there is a pause in the conversation, and Sam is sitting quietly.  I consider an appropriate ice-breaker and my mind quickly reverts to sports;  although I am specifically unaware if this is an appropriate conversation to maintain with Muslims, and particularly at a dinner specifically dedicated towards celebrating Hajjis.  Without fully considering the repercussions, I initiate a dialogue with Sam:  “So, Sam.  Do you pay attention to any sports like football or anything?”  He responds by saying, “No.  I know very little about football.  I usually stay away from sports, except for boxing and horseracing.”  I reply, admittedly entrenched within my own tendencies, by saying, “When I say, ‘Football,’ I mean ‘World Football.’”  He nods his head.  He responds by saying, “I think there is a playoff game tonight, but I am unsure.”  I perceive there is some dissonance, and again entrenched and perhaps somewhat inappropriately, I reply, “Now when I say, ‘Football,’ many people on this land seem to think about the NFL;  however, I am referring to...,” and simultaneously as I say it, he coincides, “ ‘World Football.’  Yeah, right.  Soccer.  No, I know very little about it.”  He knows exactly about what I am talking.

 

The conversation lulls, or there seems to be a pause, for a few seconds.  At the risk of woefully belabouring the point, I ask him, “What do you think about the World Cup being held in Qatar?”  Although I am being stubborn with the football talk, I am also trying to make it more relevant to him by emphasising the Qatar factor.  He seems to take an additional, although only slightly additional, interest in this.  He asks for additional information.  I explain that Qatar actually competes against a number of nations, including the United States, to secure the rights to host the World Cup.  I continue to explain that there is some controversy about this, within the United States, because the rights are awarded to Qatar;  however, throughout the rest of the Earth (including from myself), there seems to be considerable support for the World Cup to be staged in the Middle East.

 

He says, “When is this?”  As I provide an immediate response, I am trying to be careful in how I phrase this response, being aware of the religious practice (including amongst Muslims) of acknowledging that all future plans are only accomplished with the Will of God;  so I say, “Well, the most recent World Cup is this past Summer.  And the next World Cup is scheduled to be in Brasil,”  (and I pronounce it, “Brah-sil”), “So it is the World Cup after that.”  He says, “How often is the World Cup?”  I reply, “The World Cup is every four years. So… Oh, I’m sorry.  It is scheduled to be in Russia after Brasil.  So it is scheduled to be in Brasil, then Russia, then Qatar.  So that is about 12 years from now.”  I hesitate in specifically saying, “2022,” because I know that Islam utilises a different calendar;  and whilst I am previously cognisant of the specific date within the Hijra calendar, at the time I am talking with Sam, I am only aware that the date is around 1427 or so.  And utilising the “Common Era (CE)” seems to be comparatively awkward and unconvincing when talking with new friends.

 

He responds, “Oh;”  and he seems to be genuinely, slightly interested, and perhaps even humouring me somewhat, which I perceive as an honour.  There is a brief pause in the conversation.  I fill the silence by stating, “So boxing.  I think the most recent boxing match that I see fully is the match between Mike Tyson and Lennox Lewis almost ten years ago.”  Sam seems to be more intrinsically involved in this topic and provides a longer response.  I experience the urge to blurt out, “Prince Naseem,” as another means of “proving” my awareness, understanding, respect, and friendship.  However, I liken this to someone approaching me with, “Some of my best friends are black;”  the very necessity of making the statement, itself, undermines the sentiment it is try to convey.

 

Sam goes on to talk about his knowledge and experiences in wrestling.  He talks about being able to wrestle with guys who are larger than him;  and he describes a specific encounter with a guy who has a larger, muscular build, but who is unable to out-power him.  I sense that the stories are becoming, intentionally or unintentionally, metaphoric, and I try to emphasise my amicability within the dialogue.  I respond, “You know, your story reminds me of an adage that I receive from some friends:  ‘There is muscles for show.  And then there are muscles, fo’ sho’.’”  I say this with a smile and I am able to generate a very modest chuckle from Sam.

 

The conversation continues generally amidst the topics of wrestling and boxing.  At one point, Sam expounds, “Prince Naseem!”  And I quietly smile to myself.  Whilst Sam talks about proficiencies of boxing and competition, I begin to consider the sport of MMA.  When there is an appropriate opening within the conversation, I ask, “Do you know anything about MMA?”  There is a pause, and the men seem to be unaware of what I am referencing.  I continue, “MMA.  The Ultimate Fighting Championship.”  And then the three generally reply, simultaneously, “Oh.  Yeah.  Ok.” 

 

I continue, “I remember, about ten or fifteen years ago, when the Ultimate Fighting Championship is just beginning, there is this guy named Hoyce Gracie.”  (I later confirm that his name is actually, “Royce Gracie.”)  “During that time, there is a competition to determine whose style of fighting is more dominant.  And this dude, Hoyce Gracie from Brasil, comes into the sport with this Brasilian Ju-Jit-Tzu style.  Most guys at that time are heavyweights.  Guys are either boxers or wrestlers.  And many of these heavyweights simply try to pound the other guy into a knock-out.  However, Hoyce Gracie, with this Brasilian Ju-Jit-Tzu, is a grappler.  He can take on guys 70 and 80 pounds bigger than him.  And many of the heavyweights simply try to hit him.  And he can throw some punches too.  And he can take some hits.  However, he is a grappler.  So, he just waits for his time, and when there is an opening, he goes in and hangs unto the other guy.  And he does some moves.  I am even unaware of what he does.  But he takes these guys who are bigger than him, and then all of a sudden…”  And just at that time, I lightly hit the table three times, “…the other guy is tapping out.” 

 

Immediately as I say this, Omar laughs at the gesture, and Oussama and Sam seem to progress with the story as well.  However, I consider to myself whether it is inappropriate for me to hit the table in the manner that I previously do.  I am simply caught up in telling the story and emphasising the point, however, it occurs to me that I break etiquette by doing so. 

 

So, I gradually decrescendo the story by saying, “So that is Hoyce Gracie.  And the significant consideration is that he is able to utilise his opponent’s weight against him.  And he is able to utilise leverage and positioning, to get an advantage.  And then, out of the midst, his opponent is tapping out in submission.”  It occurs to me that this topic may be ineffective in cultivating greater Peace and understanding.  I am actually trying to transition the conversation into an area that is less violent and confrontational, whilst continuing to keep the topic relevant to what my new friends are providing, and without usurping control of the conversation.  However, I seem to be having difficulty doing this.

 

There is a brief pause in the conversation.  And then Sam begins to talk about a personal experience that he has.  He mentions that he owns a “drive-thru,” and there is a building situated next to the parking lot that he shares with that building.  And on one occasion, a man parks his car near the dumpster of that parking lot.  As Sam continues telling his story, he seems to become increasingly intense and agitated.  He is repeating himself on certain aspects and he is building to something.  He continues on to say that the man parks in such a way that he is blocking the traffic to Sam’s drive-thru.  Sam approaches the man’s car and solicits the man to remove his car from blocking Sam’s drive-thru.  Whilst telling the story, Sam exclaims, “The man looks at me like I was speaking Swahili.”  My ears perk up.  Sam describes how he becomes more belligerent and tells the man to leave the parking lot.  The man responds by making an obscene comment, and Sam becomes infuriated.  He describes how he reaches into the open window of the man’s car and tries to open the door.  Yet the man drives off.  Sam describes having the intention of bashing in the man’s rear window, but being unable to do so.

 

As Sam builds into this climax of the story, I sense the implicit tension and hostility.  Sam repeats, “This guy is on MY property.  On MY property.”  Given the circumstances, I find that it is time for me to revert into full Ahimsa mode.  I respond by saying, “I hear you.  I understand your frustration.  It is difficult when someone is showing disrespect and hostility.  However, I actually tend to be a ‘Peacenik.’”  Immediately as I utilise the term, Sam says, “Oh,” and much of the tension seems to be alleviated from the table.  And I continue.

 

“Yeah, I tend to be a ‘Peacenik.’”  (I hesitate in utilising the actual term, “Ahimsa,” however I try to demonstrate its meaning through example.)  “I tend to abstain from being violent.  But it is important to avoid the mistake:  I can be confrontational.  However, there is a difference between being ‘confrontational’ and being ‘violent.’  I abstain from violence.  For example…  There is this time when I am taking the bus on Lee Road.  Lee Road, do you all know where that is?”  My three friends nod affirmatively.  “So I’m on Lee and Harvard.  You know where that is?”  Yes.  “My dad previously works in that area and I am coming from visiting him. 

 

“So I am taking the bus.  And, at that time, I have this tendency about hearing profanity, especially when there are children on the bus.  It is one factor for people to utilise profanity when there are other adults around;  however, when there are children around, that is something different.  So a couple of young guys, both of whom are about twenty-something years old, get on the bus.  And this is right at quitting time, so these guys are probably coming directly from work.  And I understand how it is when people want to simply let go from work and relax.  However, these guys are utilising all types of profanities, and there is a child in the front seats. 

 

“So I turn around from my seat and I speak to the young guys and say, ‘Excuse me, guys.  There is a child on the bus.  It seems beneficial to abstain from utilising profanity whilst he is on here.’  And the guys grudgingly nod and agree to abstain from utilising profanity.  And a few minutes pass by, and all of a sudden, a profanity slips out.  Now this may be unintentional, however, after the profanity slips out, there is a pause, and I know these guys are now testing me.  I turn around and look and the guys, and say something.  And the guys respond by saying, ‘Alright man, alright.’

 

“The guys continue talking, and eventually additional profanities come out.  So by this time, it is incumbent upon me to respond accordingly.  I get up out of my seat, and walk towards the two young guys.  And I stand in front of the two guys and simply stare at the one with whom I initially make eye contact.  Now this is at the beginning of my intentional practice of abstinence from violence.  About eight years ago or so.  So I am without any intent of attacking the two guys or even fighting the two guys off if the two guys attack me.  I am actually uncertain of what I am specifically intending to do.  I am basically simply trying to be a barrier between the two guys and the child.

 

“So, I’m standing there.  And one of the guys slowly reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket, and I’m thinking, ‘Oh Great.  I’m about to get shot!’  However, the guy pulls out a pair of gloves and puts it unto his hands.  I continue standing there.  And eventually, the bus reaches my stop.  So, I get off the bus, and continue on my way.”

 

And as I am concluding the story the man at the podium, who is later introduced as the President of the Mosque (if I recall correctly), begins to make an announcement.

 

I continue briefly with my story, “With all that said, I learn a valuable lesson from this.  But I can tell you later.”

 

The President of the Mosque then introduces another man, who seems to be a religious leader or scholar, perhaps the Imam.  He addresses the participants and begins to talk about the significance of the Hajj.  He then begins speaking emphatically within Arabic, so it is comparatively difficult for me to specifically understand everything he says.  The back of my chair is facing the podium, so it is appropriate for me to twist myself to face the speaker as he continues.

 

After a few minutes, another man calls for all the Hajjis, from this past year and previously, to walk to the front of the hall.  The men and women Hajjis line up along the front of the hall, men Hajjis to the right, and women Hajjis to the left.  The man then invites each of the Hajjis to approach the microphone and provide a personal description of the experience and the significance of the Hajj.  First, each of the men Hajjis (approximately 10) speak;  and then each of the women Hajjis (approximately 10) speak.  Some of the Hajjis speak in English and some speak in Arabic.  The Hajjis briefly talk about the Hajj:  the profound experience about travelling to Mecca and being around other Muslims for the Hajj;  being able to view the Kaaba from the hotel;  some of the logistics in navigating through Mecca during that time (including the current construction of a new rail system to facilitate the travel of Muslims performing the Hajj);  and an overwhelming urge to permanently remain in Mecca.

 

The aggregate of the speeches lasts around 20 – 30 minutes.  The President of the Mosque returns to the microphone and makes some additional announcements, including an invitation for all brothers and sisters to attend the events at the Mosque more regularly.  After this, the participants are invited to continue respectively conversating at our tables.

 

I turn around in my seat to face the table, and Sam exclaims, “So what is the lesson you learned?!”  I am honoured that my story is able to reach him in such a manner.  I explain, “Rather than standing up in front of the two guys, rather than challenging aggression with aggression, the consideration is simply to have something better to say.  That is what I learn.  So after that time, I have the occasion of being on the bus numerous times.  And often, I find that there are people on the bus who are utilising profanity in front of other children.

 

“So, whenever I am on the bus and I hear the profanity, I simply bring out a copy of some written materials that I previously identify, materials that are positive and uplifting, and I read it aloud, with a loud voice, in front of the entire bus.  And after a few seconds, the people utilising the profanity say, ‘Alright, man.  Alright.’  However, I can be stubborn too, and I continue reading the materials for the full duration of the time in which I am on the bus.  And many times, people on the bus even clap and cheer in response to what I am reading.”

 

There is a brief pause and my friends seem to be receptive to what I am saying;  Oussama astutely asks, “So what are the materials that you are reading?”  I consider the what the potential bridge-building could be if I am able to say something like, the Koran, or another Holy Scripture that my friends may be able to appreciate.  However, I anticipate the disappointment when I say, “The Universal Declaration of Human Rights.”  Although I tremendously appreciate the UDHR (obviously, as it is this text that I recite on the bus), the UDHR lacks a certain amount of impact “on the ground” within many religious communities.  And I wonder what the response of the people would be if I select a more religious text from which to read on the bus. 

 

After I answer the question, there is somewhat of a lull.  By this time I make it through my salad and I am beginning with the hummus.  I recall, at the buffet table, having the option to reach across to acquire some bread with the hummus, but perceiving such a manoeuvre to be somewhat excessive;  so I simply eat the hummus with a spoon.  I also notice that I am the only one left with food on his plate. 

 

After a few minutes, I decide to introduce the topic that, in the days preceding the dinner for the Hajjis, I consider discussing.  I turn to Sam and I mention, “It is nice to hear the people talk about the experience of making the Hajj.”  Sam nods his head, affirmatively.  And I continue, “I remember the first time that I learn about the Hajj.  This is after my senior year in high school, and I am reading the Autobiography of Malcolm X, El Hajj Malik El Shabbazz.  This is during the time that Spike Lee is making the film based on the autobiography.  It is the first book that I actually read from cover to cover.

 

“One of the characteristics that I appreciate about Malcolm X is his ability and his willingness to talk forthrightly and unapologetically about the suffering of a group of people, irregardless of the consequences.  However, one of the difficulties that I always have with Malcolm X is the hatred and hostility that he seems to historically have.  So then, he makes his break from the Nation of Islam and he moves towards starting another Mosque.  And he decides to perform the Hajj.  And he has to borrow money from his sister to do so.

 

“And then he describes his experience in Mecca, whilst performing the Hajj.  He talks about being around the very types of people against whom he previously has so much hatred and hostility.  And yet he is led to love these people and accept these people as his own.  To the point where he returns to the United States and changes his whole platform based on his experience of performing the Hajj;  and he is eventually killed amidst the implementation of these changes.  It shows the transformational power of love and understanding that emerges through performing the Hajj.”

 

My friends seem to be able to appreciate this story.  And Sam begins to talk about the history of the Nation of Islam and some of his difficulties with the NOI.  We talk about the secession of one of Elijah Muhammad’s sons, Wallace Deen Muhammad, and how he goes on to form a community specifically predicated upon a more traditional interpretation and practice of the Koran.  We talk about Minister Louis Farrakhan and the implications of the involvement of the Nation of Islam with the assassination of Malcom X El Hajj Malik El Shabbazz.  And then Sam begins to talk about his difficulty with “5 Percenters,” however he communicates that he admittedly knows little about what that is.  He goes on to describe his frustration with Muslims, particularly Muslims in prison, who only come around during Ramadan and other occasions when it is materially beneficially to do so.  Someone makes an announcement for dessert but the men at our table remain at the table.

 

As Sam is speaking, another person (perhaps Omar), states that there is someone who can answer the question regarding “5 Percenters.”  So he leaves the table and brings over another man who seems to be a Chaplain at a prison facility within the distant vicinity of Cleveland.  This man has a dark-brown complexion with straight, black hair;  he is perhaps of Malaysian or Indonesian descent.  By this time, the first middle-aged man and his two sons already depart from the table;  and the Chaplain sits down to the right of Omar.  And at this time, I am substantially through the hummus and approaching the two slices of pizza.  As the Chaplain begins to speak, I utilise the opportunity to continue through the pizza.

 

The Chaplain speaks with an intensity and enthusiasm.  He leans his head slightly towards the centre of our circle and he utilises his hands to emphasise what he is saying.  It is as if we around sitting around a campfire in the woods, or even in the wilderness of the desert, and he is telling us campfire stories.  He briefly describes the characteristics and distinction of the “5 Percenters” (admittedly I have difficulty specifically recalling these characteristics and distinction other than that the “5” is derived from the five letters in the Name of Allah [Alif, Lam, Lam, Alif, Hameh, although my rendering of the Arabic alphabet is very tenuous], and that “5” also may have something to do with the Five Pillars of Islam).

 

However, the Chaplain seems to be much more interested in talking about his experience with one particular inmate who is a Muslim.  He describes that this particular inmate is somewhat of a loner, however, he has the occasion of interceding within a fight between two rival factions within the prison.  And from this, he earns a considerable amount of respect from the other inmates within the prison.  The Chaplain goes on to state that this inmate eventually dies and it becomes the responsibility of the Chaplain to take care of, and bury, the man’s remains.  The Chaplain states that the man is basically without any family or friends to pay for his burial, and that the prison is interested in simply cremating his body because it is less expensive.  The Chaplain insists that the man be buried and states that the expenses will be covered.  The Chaplain then describes taking his body, washing his body, and preparing his body for burial.  The Chaplain approaches the local community and the local community provides just enough to account for the cost of burial.  And whilst the Chaplain is telling this story, he repeatedly emphasises that the man, within his lifetime, is able to bring nine people into the fold of Islam.

 

As the Chaplain concludes his story, he quickly looks at his watch and announces, “Well, Brothers.  It is time for prayer.”  With that, the Chaplain leaves the table and proceeds towards the hallway.  And I take that as my cue to take my leave from the event.  By this time, a number of people are already putting on coats, partaking in parting dialogue, and making way towards the exit.  Also by that time, I am able to finish the two slices of pizza so that the only food item on my plate is the bread pastry with the layer of meat inside.  Everyone else’s plates are removed from the table, so I perceive that I may be able to discard the plate, with the meat, without causing a substantial amount of offence or receiving a substantial amount of disdain. 

 

Yet, particularly after eating the pizza, I consider the benefit of having some type of liquid.  I have yet to determine how the middle-aged man and his sons are able to acquire the sodas (perhaps from a vending machine), however, I notice that, amidst all the conversation, someone brings a number of mini water bottles to the table.  There are maybe around ten water bottles around the centre of the table.  I actually notice these water bottles before, but I abstain from helping myself to the water bottles to avoid any violation of a counter property claim.  I decide to wait until someone directly offers a water bottle to me.  However, at this time, it seems as though everyone else is finished eating.  All the water bottles are now empty or partially filled, with the exception of one, untouched water bottle.  I begin to consider whether this water bottle may be implicitly or directly reserved for me, however, I continue abstain from making such an direct assertion.  I try to avoid even conspicuously looking at the water bottles.  And whilst I am thinking about the water bottles, a mature man walks by and begins coughing.  One of my friends at the table, I think Sam, instinctively grabs the untouched water bottle and offers it to the mature man;  yet, the mature man politely declines the water bottle as he already has one.  The message is sent:  the water bottle is unintended specifically for me;  or perhaps it initially is, and circumstances simply arise that supercede this initial reservation.  The water bottle is returned to the table, however, I continue to abstain from making a direct assertion;  and there is an absence of an offer.

 

Soon after the Chaplain leaves, Sam stands up from the table as well.  People continue to gather towards the exit of the hall, and one by one, my friends from our table begin to leave.  I stand up and pick up my plate.  I notice a garbage can located nearby the table and I place my plate within it.  I turn and I see Omar standing closer to the podium.  I walk towards him and I extend my hand, “It is nice to meet you.”  He shakes my hand, “It is nice to meet you too.”  And I am poor with names, so, “Tell me your name, again.”  “Omar.”  “Umar?”  “Omar.”  “Oh.  OK.  Salaam.”

 

I walk back towards the table and I see Oussama.  “It is good talking with you, Oussama.”  “Yes.  So, are you a Muslim?”  “Actually, I am Jewish.”  “Oh, Ok.  Because I was thinking about that.”  “Yes, however, I work within the InterFaith Movement;  to build greater Peace and understanding between different religious communities.”

 

Again, Oussama cuts through the chase to discern the distinctions;  and I am compelled to be directly reconciled with the implication of disappointment.

 

There are repeated solicitations for participants to take food home.  Yet, I perceive that I already substantially benefit from the hospitality that my Muslim friends and the Mosque provide.  I briefly look around and I am disappointed because I am unable to find Sam to say, “Good-bye” and “Salaam,” to him.  I walk towards the hallway and I nod and raise my hand to the people I directly encounter on my way out;  “Salaam.”  Why is it easier for me to say in parting compared to when I am sitting down and having a conversation with someone?  There is a small crowd in the hallway near the doorway through which I initially enter the Mosque.  I continue into the Northern Winter air, without a coat.  I walk along the sidewalk between the Mosque and the parking lot, towards our mother’s car. 

 

There is a man walking in the parking lot, in the opposite direction towards the Mosque.  “A Salaam Alaikum, Brother.”  “Wa Alaikum a Salaam.”  Another man passes by in the parking lot, “A Salaam Alaikum.”  “Wa Alaikum a Salaam.”

 

I reach our mother’s car and I see a number of headlights approaching from the street, apparently to perform Salat.  I open the door to the car and sit in the driver’s seat.  I turn on my phone and make a call, “Greetings, Mor.  I’m on my way back.  Love and Peace.”

 

Love and Peace,

 

Peter