Two Mosques, One God
I have stood inside both of these mosques, in two different countries, separated by an ocean and by what feels like a thousand years of the same religion. --- In the first, the call to prayer doesn't come from a minaret. There isn't one. The building is modest — about five hundred square feet — and at the entrance sits a security guard, a young man in his early thirties, who nods you through. To the left is a sizable coffee shop, large enough to hold a hundred people. Young men and women sit hunched over laptops, headphones in, phones glowing beside their cups. Some talk quietly with friends, coffee cooling at their elbows. Light music drifts out of speakers mounted somewhere near the ceiling. When the call to prayer sounds — broadcast, not chanted from a tower — a few people rise and leave. Most don't look up from their screens. To the right, a hallway leads to the mosque itself, where on Fridays the room fills: the old, the young, the in-between. Prayer begins at one...