Funny The Way It Is

We have internet back at my house, so I'm hoping to start posting (somewhat) regularly.

In the meantime, just sharing some music. I've had this song stuck in my head for the longest time, and it seems very appropriate here. I hear it all the time.

Eid Mubarak!

Disclosure: I wrote this post almost a month ago but due to a combination of travelling and lack of internet access at my house, I am just now getting it out. It's a little less relevant now, but better late than never!

A few weeks ago, I rushed into a taxi, running late for the Eid Mubarak festivities that the U.S. Embassy had organized for the YES Abroad participants to observe. I had planned to take the tro tro and at first was annoyed with myself that my last minute rushing had forced me to take a more expensive private car.

As the ride went on though, my irritation drifted away, replaced by curiosity and appreciation. As we wove through the maze of streets and zoomed past the ocean, more and more Muslims crowded the sidewalks and the streets. As I watched their hijab or kufi covered heads walking, biking, or riding tro tros to the nearest mosque, just like me, I felt part of something bigger. It felt as though I was part of a great migration - towards Islam of course, but also towards more general reflection and renewal of faith. I itched to move from my position as a bystander in a taxi to a participant in the day's rituals and festivities.

I arrived at the AFS office and met the other exchange students, their heads already wrapped. Soon enough, Miriyam's painted hands twirled around and around my head, carrying fabric from my chin to my temple and back again. She tightly pinned the fabric with the efficiency and sureness of someone who had performed the same ritual many, many times before.

As we drove to the mosque, we witnessed the same migration that I had witnessed earlier. I felt honored to be a part of this group, if only for a day.

Once at the mosque, we took off our shoes and stepped (right foot first!) into the sacred space of worship. We joined the other women and children on the second floor in ritual bows and listened to the rolling sound of Arabic coming from an unseen Imam, who stood among the men down below. Staring at the backs of a hundred-plus hijab covered heads, I said my own prayers, to our God.

After the service we recollected our shoes and walked behind the mosque to witness the sacrifice of twelve cows. With strong stomachs, we watched as they were forced down to the ground, bound with rope, then cut into at the neck, one after the other. The strong cut of the knife sent blood squirting and exposed guts and bone. As the blood pooled in a pit that was dug into the Earth, the cows' breathing grew heavy and their eyes went blank. With one last shudder of the muscles and a final grunt, they each surrendered to their fate and fulfilled their purpose for the day.

The cows are representative of the story of Isaac and Ishmael. Muslims believe that God gave Abraham instructions to go to the top of a mountain and sacrifice his son, Ishmael. With a heavy heart, Abraham took his baby boy there and took out a knife. He placed it on the baby's neck and agonized, dreading the moment that he would sacrifice his own son, but knowing that it had to be done to please God. At the second that he had finally gathered the strength to do it, God spoke to him. He told Abraham to let his baby live. It had been a test of faith, and Abraham had passed. From then on, Ishmael was seen as the "chosen one" (not Isaac, as Christians believe). Every year on the Eid, millions of Muslims make the hajj to Mecca and animals are sacrificed all over the world to represent Abraham's devotion to God. 

For each animal that is sacrificed, it is said that it should be divided into three parts. One part goes to family, one to friends, and one to the needy. Here is a video of the ceremony (not for the faint of heart!)

After the sacrifices, we were joined by a leader in the Muslim community of Accra named Seth. We took the bus with him to another mosque, this one much smaller and painted bright turquoise. Before entering the mosque we performed ablutions. Using small teakettle shaped pitchers, we washed our legs, arms, hands, and feet three times each. We then washed our necks and the baby hairs that were tucked under fabric. We used dry fingers to cleanse behind our ears.

Refreshed, we entered the mosque for our second service of the day. I'm not ashamed to admit that I fell asleep for a little bit, because about 3/4 of the other women were sleeping too! Proof:

After the second service, there was another cow sacrifice and we got back on the bus to go to Seth's house. On the bus we had a long discussion with Seth about polygamy, jihad, the roles of men and women in Islam, the five pillars, gay marriage, the life of Mohammed, the reasons why mosques are separated by gender, and more. I'm not ready to convert yet, but the conversation was very interesting and we all learned a ton.

Seth's house was a small, humble home, filled with love. His son climbed on him like a jungle gym and, like any naughty boy, ignored his father's commands to go and say his prayers. His wife made us delicious groundnut soup and rice balls. We devoured the food while watching live footage of the hajj in Mecca. In a world defined by divisions and fighting, it was powerful to witness so many people from around the world coming together peacefully. I got that sense just through watching it on TV, so I can only imagine how powerful it is actually being there. Seth described his trip to Mecca a few years ago, and his strong desire to go back was clear in the emotion that shone through his words.

We left his house full and happy with lots to think about. His wife and a friend were outside handling the guts and meat from the cow and bagging them up to distribute. I realized that over the course of the day I saw that cow go from healthy and alive to preparation for consumption.

Back at the bus, Seth surprised us each with our own copy of the Qu'ran in English and we were instructed on how it should be kept.

I was still wearing my conservative dress and the hijab as I walked through the tro tro station on my way home. For the first time since I got to Ghana, people didn't really look twice at me and I was treated as their equal. My politically incorrect twelve year-old host brother says that it was because I looked like I was from Afghanistan or Pakistan and people were scared of me, but I think that they were just being respectful. I got a few "as-salamu alaykum"s (peace be upon you) to which I responded "alaykum as-salam." And I truly did feel that peace was upon me, and wish the same peace upon them.