Postcards From The Edge

Entry was restricted to Muslims. I had learned the passphrase in Arabic by heart, just in case, although my complexion combined with a self-assured “Salam Aleikoum”, was enough to let me through. I was now inside the mosque’s majestic prayer hall, admiring the intricate carvings of the world-famous Mirhab. Suddenly, the call to mid-afternoon prayer came soaring through the loudspeakers. As the colossal doors—my only outlet—shut closed, my stomach dropped. The Imam summoned the believers. There was nowhere to hide. Just one of these situations where the only thing left to do is pray. So I did.