Read Online The Butterfly Mosque by G. Willow Wilson - Free Book Online Page B

Omar’s voice prompted me awake. He was reading Al Jabbar in English. “And I take
Al Haq,
the Truth,as my birthright; as a creature I am transitory. And He said, ‘Veil this symbol, and know it, and be satisfied.’”
    â€œI can see why we do this,” I said.
    When the sun began to drop into the Nile, Jo and Omar and I took a cab to Sohair’s flat for
iftar,
the meal eaten to break the daily fast. According to prophetic tradition,
iftar
should be a modest meal of dates and milk. Egyptians ignore this. Syrup-coated butter pastries round out nightly feasts of stuffed eggplant, mutton, and rice spiced with cinnamon and fat raisins; despite a day’s worth of dehydration, thick apricot nectar is the drink of choice.
    â€œSugar for energy, and salt to retain fluids,” Ibrahim reasoned as we set the table. Jo helped Sohair in the kitchen; I heard her laugh. Outside, the call for sunset prayer rang out.
    â€œThey’ve started,” said Omar, handing me a glass.
“Ramadan karim!
”
    â€œAllahu akram,
” I said, repeating the traditional response I’d learned just that morning. Ramadan is generous; God is the most generous. I raised the glass to my lips to take a polite sip.
    It was the best glass of anything, ever. My senses, muted all day, clamored to be heard again, to taste and be full. The jumbled euphoria of fast-breaking—part chemical, part spiritual—was unlike any other sensation I could name. I slumped in my chair and let my head roll back.
    â€œOh
God,
” I said.
    They all laughed. Jo poked me in the ribs and winked. I was happy with everything: the people sitting around Sohair’s tiny wooden table; the drowsy, flushed desertoutside the window. I was happy, also, with myself. I had lived up to my choices. If I could fast one day, I could fast another twenty-eight—I could do it all again the next year. And the year after. For the first time since I converted, I saw a satisfying little glimmer of what the future might look like. Choosing the way you live is choosing
to
live. From that night onward, Ramadan to me was about having gratitude—for revelation, for prophesy, for the sheer joy of being human in the world.
    After the food was eaten and the leftovers cleared away, we lingered over tea. Omar took out his oud and played Arabic folksongs full of quarter-tones that do not exist in western music: fleeting, wry sounds. Ibrahim showed Jo and me his electric guitar, explaining all the knobs and buttons the nonmusical have trouble understanding.
    â€œI would like to learn to play the piano as well. I started, but,” here he gestured at an old Casio keyboard sitting on a shelf, “that thing is not very inspiring. I would like a real piano.”
    â€œI wish there was such a thing as teleportation,” I said.
    â€œAeda?
”
    â€œMaking things disappear magically from one place and reappear in another.”
    â€œAh.” He smiled. “Why?”
    â€œAt my parents’ house in Colorado, we have a huge old piano that no one can play. You would love it.”
    â€œPerhaps if I come visit you one day.”
    â€œYou should. I want you to see our mountains.”
    He grinned, then looked away with a pensive expression. “I have met many Americans and they are all friendly and open-minded. I don’t understand, then, why—” I’m not sure if he finished the sentence. “I try to remember this every time I see what the United States is doing to the Middle East or I watch your news—which is very depressing—but it is hard not to be angry. To become closed. There is so much lying.”
    In situations like this I always want to defend my country, and every rational way I might do so evaporates.
    â€œThe American media is much more radical than the American people,” I said weakly. This was something I couldn’t control but I still felt guilty. I could see Ibrahim standing