I can't get to the internet as much as I would like so I've also been writing down my thoughts as I travel. I finally found time to update my blog here with my latest writing as I traveled lately. I've got more but when I have time I will update this with more travel thoughts......enjoy....
Mornings in Islamabad began as they always did. Before the first streaks of light filled the room, a cool breeze mingling with the dust of the road outside would disturb the heavy silence of slumber. Within moments, the melodic wail of an Imam's call to prayer would shatter the silence. This was the exotic morning ritual I remember so clearly.
The call was such a strange and exotic ritual that I remember lying in bed, spellbound by the rising and falling of the Arabic melody. As I have grown older and reflected upon my experiences in the Foreign Service, I recall those waking moments as a metaphorical symbol of my own awakening to the world around me.
I learned to quickly adapt to new cultures. I rarely questioned the foreign cultures with which I came into contact. I assimilated what I could and saw little distinction between myself as an American and the people of the countries in which I visited. For the first time, in Islamabad, Pakistan, I began to notice these differences. Like drawing lines in the sand, the Imam's call to prayer marked the psychological lines between "us" and "them". Here was a morning ritual taken for granted as the norm, yet day in and day out the call to prayer reminded me of my foreignness - reminded me that I could never return to that state of youthful obliviousness of the differences between myself and the peoples of the culture in which I was immersed.
The call to prayer, by it's own nature, reflected the internal tug-of-war I was experiencing. As the Imam's voice climbed in a mournful wail, it was simultaneously exotic, beautiful, and melancholy. In Pakistan, and in the countries in which I subsequently visited, these emotions characterized my confused identity. The poignant spices, the chaos of dusty bazaars, the roaring of Pakistani buses decorated like wedding cakes; I was enchanted by the exotic beauty of the people and their culture. Yet there was the underlying feeling of detachment, of separation, because I was immersed in a world I could never really be a part of nor ever fully understand.
In Israel I rediscovered the Imam's call. It was just before dusk; a silence had descended upon the ancient streets of old Jerusalem as I stood upon a platform looking down at the Western Wall and the Temple Mount to the right. Just beyond I could make out the domes of the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. From the Western Wall I could faintly hear the murmurs of prayer when a sudden burst of sound leapt from the Temple Mount as the call to prayer began. Almost simultaneously, the sounds of church bells rang out in the distance. Before me was an eerie display - a cacophony of religious sounds - the holiest shrines of three great religions competing, it seemed, for dominion over the city. Yet there was something harmonious in their competing religious clamor. These three great religions were sharing in an age - old celebration of faith. I stood looking out at the holy structures of three religions I had known in very different ways - Islam through those mornings in Islamabad, Christianity through my own experience, and Judaism through my years in Israel. Once again, the Imam's call to prayer had jarred me from sleep and I had awakened. I saw that no matter how much these religions and these people differed, at a very basic level they shared fundamental human yearnings. The psychological lines I drew between my own culture and the Pakistani culture suddenly seemed trivial. Below me, barbed wire and soldiers marked the boundaries between the Jewish and Arab quarters of the city and I realized the terrible ramifications of these psychological barriers.
Whether a practicing Muslim or a foreigner, the-Imam's call to prayer stirs something universal in people. It is a calling to pause and reflect - and in this way awaken to a new level of understanding. Initially, it awakened me out of my innocence - it drew attention to the differences I had never seen before in the people of a culture in which I was immersed. Later, it awakened me to a greater level of understanding - it showed me that all humans at a basic level experience the same human emotions and desires. The barriers that divide peoples are not inherent, they are man-made. And so, when I look at the barriers dividing peoples and cultures today - poverty, AIDS, conflicts in the Middle East, a global war against terrorism - I see the Imam's call falling on deaf ears. I recall those surreal mornings of awakening in Islamabad. With time, we may awaken.
Mornings in Islamabad began as they always did. Before the first streaks of light filled the room, a cool breeze mingling with the dust of the road outside would disturb the heavy silence of slumber. Within moments, the melodic wail of an Imam's call to prayer would shatter the silence. This was the exotic morning ritual I remember so clearly.
The call was such a strange and exotic ritual that I remember lying in bed, spellbound by the rising and falling of the Arabic melody. As I have grown older and reflected upon my experiences in the Foreign Service, I recall those waking moments as a metaphorical symbol of my own awakening to the world around me.
I learned to quickly adapt to new cultures. I rarely questioned the foreign cultures with which I came into contact. I assimilated what I could and saw little distinction between myself as an American and the people of the countries in which I visited. For the first time, in Islamabad, Pakistan, I began to notice these differences. Like drawing lines in the sand, the Imam's call to prayer marked the psychological lines between "us" and "them". Here was a morning ritual taken for granted as the norm, yet day in and day out the call to prayer reminded me of my foreignness - reminded me that I could never return to that state of youthful obliviousness of the differences between myself and the peoples of the culture in which I was immersed.
The call to prayer, by it's own nature, reflected the internal tug-of-war I was experiencing. As the Imam's voice climbed in a mournful wail, it was simultaneously exotic, beautiful, and melancholy. In Pakistan, and in the countries in which I subsequently visited, these emotions characterized my confused identity. The poignant spices, the chaos of dusty bazaars, the roaring of Pakistani buses decorated like wedding cakes; I was enchanted by the exotic beauty of the people and their culture. Yet there was the underlying feeling of detachment, of separation, because I was immersed in a world I could never really be a part of nor ever fully understand.
In Israel I rediscovered the Imam's call. It was just before dusk; a silence had descended upon the ancient streets of old Jerusalem as I stood upon a platform looking down at the Western Wall and the Temple Mount to the right. Just beyond I could make out the domes of the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. From the Western Wall I could faintly hear the murmurs of prayer when a sudden burst of sound leapt from the Temple Mount as the call to prayer began. Almost simultaneously, the sounds of church bells rang out in the distance. Before me was an eerie display - a cacophony of religious sounds - the holiest shrines of three great religions competing, it seemed, for dominion over the city. Yet there was something harmonious in their competing religious clamor. These three great religions were sharing in an age - old celebration of faith. I stood looking out at the holy structures of three religions I had known in very different ways - Islam through those mornings in Islamabad, Christianity through my own experience, and Judaism through my years in Israel. Once again, the Imam's call to prayer had jarred me from sleep and I had awakened. I saw that no matter how much these religions and these people differed, at a very basic level they shared fundamental human yearnings. The psychological lines I drew between my own culture and the Pakistani culture suddenly seemed trivial. Below me, barbed wire and soldiers marked the boundaries between the Jewish and Arab quarters of the city and I realized the terrible ramifications of these psychological barriers.
Whether a practicing Muslim or a foreigner, the-Imam's call to prayer stirs something universal in people. It is a calling to pause and reflect - and in this way awaken to a new level of understanding. Initially, it awakened me out of my innocence - it drew attention to the differences I had never seen before in the people of a culture in which I was immersed. Later, it awakened me to a greater level of understanding - it showed me that all humans at a basic level experience the same human emotions and desires. The barriers that divide peoples are not inherent, they are man-made. And so, when I look at the barriers dividing peoples and cultures today - poverty, AIDS, conflicts in the Middle East, a global war against terrorism - I see the Imam's call falling on deaf ears. I recall those surreal mornings of awakening in Islamabad. With time, we may awaken.
posted by loner at 11:44 PM
0 comments
