This short, thoughtful and courageous statement with some profound questions is written by a 17 years old girl. We grown ups are morally obligated to address the questions asked in this statement.
My Eid Prayer
I was so excited. It was Eid-Al- Adha today, the sun was shining, my beautiful family was together, I was going to see my friends, and pray. When I got to the mosque, I greeted any friends, then quickly went into the praying room for Salat. When the Imam commenced, I was suddenly in a trance. My eyes were closed, and my mind was somewhere else. I was mesmerized by his melodic, powerful voice. It was like he was singing a song to us; a song that when it ended, I was so disappointed and wanted it to start again.
I still had no idea how he looked like. What I was expecting was very different from what he actually looked like. When the Imam turned around, I saw a built young man, with a warm smile in a suit and tie. Now it was time for the Khutbah. Everyone was aware of how boring these usually are and was just eager to get up and leave. This was different. He spoke of stories and of things that young people like me can relate to. For example, he talked about the positives and negatives social networking sites, and tied it back to being close with your families. I was connected with him from start to finish. Nothing could break my concentration from his Khutbah: not the screaming babies in the background, not the ladies chatting, or fidgeting, absolutely nothing. By the time this was all over, I felt compelled to speak to this guy, to hear his point of view, his thoughts etc… But from this point on, I felt nothing but disappointed and let down.
I was the first one to approach the Imam and the last one to say something to him. Older men were coming in front of me as if I wasn’t there, as if what I had to say didn’t matter. I was being looked at by other men with confusion as they approached the imam, shook his hand and hugged him. “What does this little seventeen year old girl have to possibly to say?” But I decided to wait patiently. This Imam deserved to know that his message was speaking to people like me. Five minutes go by, ten minutes go by, ten men disregard me, thirteen men disregard me. I was embarrassed. As I turn my head with my eyes facing the ground, it is then the Imam finally said to one man “one second brother, this sister would like to say something.” With light tears in my eyes and a light, stuttered voice all I say is “I thought your voice was very beautiful and you did a wonderful job. Your message was mashallah wonderful.”
It is when incidents like this happen to me that I get angry because it becomes clear that justice is not being served. To this day I struggle with one question: Is lslam misogynistic or is it just the culture that is being influenced by the religion? Why was I looked at strangely by other men there? I don’t know. Why was I ignored? I don’t know. Why was it so difficult for me to congratulate a man in his mission? I don’t know. But the point is it shouldn’t be.
By Gia Chawla
