Blog / Writing Archive

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The Women’s Section:

Coburg Islamic Centre

(written in the old mosque, 2023)

The carpet in this mosque is green, a soft green, with gold patterning to mark the rows we stand upon. Despite this, my sisters bring a colourful amalgam of their own prayer mats, which makes the floor look wonderfully messy, like a marketplace stall, full to the brim with textile goods. Two women in front of me are using pink and blue rugs, side by side, but one is angled askew, so the colours overlap. The blue prayer mat has yellow detailing, these large triangular shapes framing the border of the material. And the pink one is adoringly covered with flowers. Beside me is my friend; we never see each other outside of the mosque, but here we gravitate towards each other and pray side by side. She lays her rug down sideways so that we can share it; parallel with the golden rows on the carpet beneath, but clashing with the perpendicular prayer mats all around. Hers has a busy pattern, with leaves and flowers of all sizes and in at least four oddly-matched colours surrounding the Kaaba. The Kaaba, of course, often takes central place on our prayer mats. It’s the direction we face when we pray: it unites us all regardless of the chaos beneath our feet.

The beautiful thing about this mosque is the people that come to it. Many mosques I’ve been to are largely inhabited by one cultural or ethnic group, or one particular school of thought, without room for diversity. But this mosque, my mosque, has people from all over the place, just like our prayer mats. Some are converts, others are Turkish, or South Asian, or Lebanese. We have a reputation of being a “friendly mosque” – no one judges or reprimands the sisters who don’t adhere to a certain dress code, or who don’t look and behave in whatever way is dominant in the mainstream. Some women don the traditional abaya or jilbab, but many of us scrape together whatever modest clothing we can find; and we all understand that faith is separate from culture. There is no one way to be Muslim. A long top over jeans, a shawl, a western dress with a knitted cardigan; they all achieve the same purpose. There is no pressure to wear Arab attire, or only black – on the contrary, the colourful clothes my sisters wear outshine the lanterns that hang from the ceiling.

Our sisterhood goes beyond ordinary bounds even when we don’t know each other’s names. My friend that I pray with, she is in her fifties, while I am nineteen. But none of that matters. Praying together creates a bond, like a knot that only tightens when you pull it; every night of Ramadan, though I may begin my prayers at the back of the room, soon enough I will have joined her at the front. We all shake hands at the end, or hug, touching cheek to cheek three times, and wish for each other that our prayers are accepted. The knot continues to tighten, such that even when Ramadan ends, and the months go by, we will joyfully recognise each other next year. I do know my friend’s name; it means ‘light’ in Arabic. Not any light, not one manufactured, like the cold ceiling lights at the entrance. No, her name means light from God. The kind of light that warms your heart and twinkles in your eye. I see it shining from her face.

Someone hand-painted the Palestinian flag on a pre-used canvas, and placed it on the window sill. When the sunlight shines through it, we can see the floral painting underneath. The rose is significant in Islam, it reminds us of the beautiful character of our Prophet, and in mystical tradition it represents divine perfection. The roses blooming beneath the flag of our Palestinian brothers and sisters is just like the everlasting faith that they have. Their heartfelt resilience that shines through the cruellest of hardships is unique to the community led by our Prophet. On another wall is sweeping calligraphy in black paint; large letters declare three of God’s names – Allah, the King, the Most Merciful – and a gentle, elderly woman with a wry smile sits beside it. She is too old to pray standing, so she uses this worn grey chair that must be so full of remnants of the blessings she has accrued. I don’t know her story, but she too has the light of the devout marking her features. Finally, one wall is decorated with the words ‘Ramadan Mubarak’ and a handful of wooden moons and stars. The most ecstatic and wonderful reminder; for even as we reach the last remaining days, knowing that it is the month of increase, of glad tidings, and of forgiveness, makes me so happy.

When the imam prepares to lead the prayer, the sounds of a jostling microphone and static come through the speaker. There’s a delightful humanness about these imperfections. We hear him lovingly scold his son for running amuck; the sisters around me chuckle as he insists his son joins the rows to pray. Children gather behind us – sometimes making too much noise – squealing and chatting, bringing energy to the room. Often the parents dress their children up in prayer gowns and thobes, so we get a glimpse of the next generation of our people, in miniature. When the call to prayer resounds through the room there is a hush; a collective understanding and a focused silence as the most important part of our lives begins. The most beautiful recitation of the Qur’an waters our souls like rain after a drought. The prayer is how we come close to God in this world, and the Qur’an is our lifeboat, which guides us through oceans. Prayer quenches a thirst, it relieves the spirit, it brings our faces gently to the ground. It is not only me who is praying, and the women and children around me; it is millions of people across the world, at the same moments each day. And because of that, this group of women in my humble mosque represent a unity that stretches beyond the physical. Each prayer mat brings a new colour, a different texture, but framing them all is the soft green carpet with its gold detailing.

“As long as my soul stays in my body,
I am a slave of the Qur’an and the dust on the path of Muhammad, the Chosen One.
If someone interprets my words in any other way,
That person I deplore, and I deplore his words.”

- Jalal ud-Din Rumi