Bleeding in Babylon

Chapter 1 (continued)

 

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        We have invited those who practice Islam to worship with us, and today a half dozen men and women carry prayer rugs and come to our church from the neighboring mosque. I greet them at the door, where they hesitate before entering. Their hearts must be pounding as mine is now. Hajji—I've heard it spoken too easily, too carelessly by some in the military, and yet I say nothing. My palms sweat, and I wipe them on my pants before shaking hands with the men, before asking everyone to follow me. They nod; they look left and right and to me as I coax them past the baptismal font, down the nave toward an area in front. Two of the men wear kufie, close fitting white caps. The women cover their hair with scarves called hijab; one of them shyly looks at me as though afraid of offending and walks down the aisle with small, quick steps. In the pews, the few people sitting there shift and stare; when their rustling stops, our footsteps echo off the walls; and though we go to a secluded corner, I still feel their eyes upon us.

        Our guests arrange themselves with men in front and women behind. They try to stay out of sight and for a moment gaze at the stained glass windows, at the altar rising before them. They look into the vaulted ceiling as if they have never been in such a cavernous space. But this is only a modest church, with thick stone walls that insulate us from the noise of traffic outside, from the heat of the sun and the harshness of its glare, from the press of our own busy lives. Here in this space like a grotto, the altar glimmers of its own inner light. In the apse stands the crucifix, tall as a man, with Christ slumped in His final temporal moments. Ecce Homo. For my Lenten sacrifice I relinquish the luxury of anger and righteousness. I give up judgment. I give up certainty.

        One of the men pinches his friend's arm and points up at the painting, in the lunette, of Mary in the clouds. They tilt heads toward each other, whisper and gesture at the corners, at the walls. This way, they seem to say. No, that way. Again they peer into the stained glass windows, at Peter, at Paul, at the other apostles each captured in light. They study the shadows and nod. Yes, yes. This way. The two men unroll prayer rugs, set them on the floor and point them not at the altar but to the east, toward Mecca. The others follow and remove their shoes, place them to one side, lay down their rugs and kneel.

        In the pews a white-haired woman hunches forward, her hands raised and clasped. She tries not to stare at our guests touching their foreheads to the floor, but instead peeks to one side. A scattering of elderly parishioners sit here, and over the years they have come up to me to introduce their children and grandchildren. Several families have members serving in the military. Parents have shown me photographs of skinny young men or coltish women standing at attention, in uniform, their faces earnest and eager. They hold rifles like playthings. I have read the name tags stitched to their shirt pockets. Mothers have approached me and requested prayers, but we all expect additional deployments, and those in the Reserves and National Guard prepare to leave jobs and families.

        The doors open again and a tall, thin man in white robe and kufie enters the narthex. Like the others he carries a prayer rug. I walk up to him and introduce myself. “Welcome. Are you here to join us in prayer?”

        Tipping his head, he replies with a surprisingly mild voice, “Riad al-Sharat. I am the imam at the mosque.” Hairs the color of steel wool streak his beard, black and neatly trimmed but still bushy. He thanks me for the invitation and walks beside me down the aisle. “I'm sorry to be late.”

        “People may pray here any time. There is no scheduled service today.”

        He nods. “Ahh—yes. Somehow I knew that, but forgot. I'm used to a different way.”

        We reach the open area and talk briefly with the others from his mosque. Then Riad unrolls his prayer rug, removes his shoes and kneels. As he and those from his congregation pray, what do they think? Are we one with them seeking peace? Or do they feel estranged among us?

        I sit in one of the pews and close my eyes. According to the news, immense sandstorms have engulfed our troops and day has turned to night. Soldiers are breathing through bandanas, their faces caked with dust, their machinery immobilized by choking red clouds.

        Already a dozen in the armed services have died. Newspapers have described them as the first heroes; by now they must be flying home in an Army transport plane. I pray Daniel doesn't return this way. In what book is recorded the necessary information: name, rank, serial number, cause of death, religion and beneficiaries of the insurance policy? Do the commanding officers write to the next of kin? Something is in my eye. Dust. Or an eyelash. I blink, but still it irritates me.

        “Pssst—”

        What is that?

        “Pssst—” The imam sits next to me. “Forgive me, but it means much to me, and to the brothers and sisters, to receive your invitation to pray here.”

        “These are troubling times.”

        “Yes, they are.” He tips his head. “We sit here in comfort, and my homeland is a battlefield.”

        “I didn't know.”

        “My family fled a police state. We owned our farm. The soil was ours and I tended the fields.” Someone coughs; he glances around the church. “I would like to see my old home once more. The house was tiny, only wood and plaster and whitewash but it was ours.”

        “You are welcome here.”

        As though he has an ulcer, Riad places one hand on his stomach. “I had hoped to be accepted in your country. Now this war .  .  .  you call us hajji—and defile the word.”

        “Not me—”

        “I don't accuse you.”

        “I never called anyone hajji.”

        “Hajji is one who has made the pilgrimage to Mecca.” He extends his hand; I shake it and he clasps my hand with both of his. “Some in my congregation think it wrong to pray here. I almost didn’t come, but now I invite you to visit my mosque. I would welcome you as a brother.”

 

* * *

 

        These first weeks of war have passed too quickly. As if he doesn’t care, Daniel sits bare chested on Marybeth's back porch, holds a cinder block in each hand and pumps concrete with the smooth flex of his biceps.

        I step into the yard. “Is your mother around?”

        “In the garden.”

        “She said I could pick up an old card table.”

        “Over by the side.” Up, down, up, down. The veins pulse in his muscles. Now he lifts the cinder blocks and hoists them alternately over his head like pistons.

        “What is she planting?”

        “I dunno.”

        “She have anything else to donate?”

        “Didn't say so.”

        Sweat trickles down his shoulders, his chest. One, two, three, four.

        “Not working today?”    

        “Taking a break from my job.” He focuses straight ahead. Five, six, seven, eight.

        “When are you going back?”

        “Not going back.”

        “Oh—”

        “Uh huh.” Hup, hoop, hreep, forp. “Just got my orders.”