Growing Up Mosqued, Away From the Masjid

This is Day 8 of Hindtrospectives’ #MyMosqueMyStory series for Ramadan 2015

By Anisha Ismail Patel

It’s 1987 and I’m fourteen years old living in Lilongwe, the capital of Malawi, a country in southern Africa. Every year my father drives us to the countryside to search for the Ramadan moon. There in the velvet sky we detect the peaceful and regal crescent.  We scream with joy. My father warm-heartedly leads us in a prayer for sighting the new moon. Ramadan is finally here!

Preparations for the arrival of the month of fasting always began weeks ahead of time. My parents would arrange for us to make Ramadan care packages that included sugar, nsima (maize flour) and other non-perishables. We would distribute these to nearby villages in this impoverished region of Sub-Saharan Africa. We also gave these gift baskets to our business staff and housekeepers, many of who were Muslim. In anticipation for Ramadan, our home was filled with delicious aromas as my mom and Hakeem, our dear cook, spent time pre-freezing iftar appetizers.

Iftar time was special. Before the Maghrib adhan there were a flurry of dishes being exchanged between homes. At my mom’s request, I would skip over with samosas for my neighbors, and in turn they would pack kebabs and other treats for us. Although we heard the adhan five times a day throughout the year, in Ramadan our ears were even more attentive as the men in the community rushed to the masjid to catch salah, while the women prayed at home with the children.

Since the men broke their fast at the masjid, each day we made ten gallons of sweet falooda milk for the potluck iftar, and delivered it in a steel canister. I would break my fast at home with my mom and baby sister, wondering how much fun all the men would be having eating at the masjid. However, that being the norm, I didn’t give it much thought. I looked out for my father and brothers to return soon after maghrib, when Iftar dinner together as a family was always special.

While one could say that I grew up being “unmosqued,” the mosque played such a central role in my life. The masjid was a walk away from our home, in the heart of the old town, a stucco structure with a dome and elegant minarets. It was surrounded by a plush garden and even had some mango trees scattered in the compound. It was a serene spot off of an otherwise dusty, busy main street. My father was my link to the masjid. It was as if there was a spool of yarn tied softly from his strong hands to my tender ones, connecting us as he walked to pray his salah five times a day, sharing his spirituality with me on his return. My brothers, too, were my liaisons to the masjid. I was so excited on the days they were selected to recite the call to prayer, their voices chorusing throughout the city. It was a meaningful life centered in faith, an existence planned around the five adhans that echoed magically throughout the city. Church and temple bells also chimed melodically in the balmy breeze. The closeness between people of all walks of life, race and religion, knit together a strong sense of belonging, like a warm blanket.

Taraweeh prayers were definitely memorable times! On his way to the masjid my father would drop us off down the road at a family friend’s home. There at the Omar residence, together with the moms and my friends, we would pray Isha and taraweeh. We would stand side-by-side and pray independently but together in one long line in their generous hallway, which spanned across the center of their tropical villa. The wood floors were covered with plush prayer rugs, and we each got to pick a tasbih from their crystal bowl. The best part was that we all brought snacks and shared them at the end of the prayers while we waited for the dads to come pick us up. I still remember the aunty and remember her voice as she encouraged me to share a surah of the Quran. I had an eager audience and recited with such pride!

It is now 2015, and I have been living in my new home country, America, for 17 years. I am so grateful for my warm childhood memories of Ramadan in Malawi, as I have tried to nurture the same excitement in my four young children. They truly love this blessed month, which envelops our lives in an aura of barakah.

Anisha is a global educator, passionate about civic engagement especially nurturing women & youth in leadership and service. She is a seasonal baking enthusiast, nonfiction reader, amateur runner, former golfer and mother of 4 young children.  You can catch up with Anisha at www.InnovusED.com | @AnishaLeads | LinkedIN