A Different Visit to the Little Old Mosque

I entered one of the small and old mosques in downtown Amman. Living for the past three years in the west, far from the crowded mosques in the poor areas, made the visit of an exceptional taste. I prayed my two raka’ah’s close to the end lines so I can have a better view of the mosque and allow my eyes to scan the faces of the visitors; whom we can safely call “the guests of Allah”. I do not know whether it was the dusty smell of the carpets which I inhaled in every prostrate, or the vision of the fairly painted old walls that took me years back in history. The little mosque is very busy, people entering and leaving in every minute, the sound of shoes hitting the ground, the voice of people shouting salams whenever they enter, the horns of cars outside, but still the mosque pertained its peace and tranquility. A very old man with a sharply bent back took his slow motion through the crowds to find his spot in the lines. He started praying, and I felt the pain of his back whenever he moved to perform one of the prayer pillars. Another man, probably in his forties, joined by his two kids walking slightly back to his two sides, all carrying heavy shopping bags, took their rest besides one of the huge stone pillars before starting the congregation prayer with each other. A third man sitting in the right back corner of the mosque was carrying a large copy of the Quran in his two hands and I was confused whether he was reciting the Quran or just moving his lips because he would look around every now and then, but definitely he was busy monotonously flipping the pages every two or three minutes. I am still sitting silently at the back, watching these normal activities, which I have watched thousands of times before, but this time they were a type of spiritual experience. I would have loved to stay but I knew that I was expected to be punctual for a family lunch. Before moving to carry my hand bag, something was waiting for me to witness and I remained in my spot for the next thirty minutes.

A man entered the mosque, pacing slowly with a posture bent towards his right. He was crippling, dragging his right leg with every step, and wiping his nose or face with his disabled arm which was dangled again in the right side. It was obvious from his movements and facial expressions that he had a mental disability. For some reason, I decided to stay as I felt few emotions were hitting the surface of my inner chest. He was wearing a pair of long jeans with slight openings near the knees and the heels. He started praying and when he finished he raised his hands above his head, bending his neck towards the right and said in broken heart and harsh deep voice: “Alhamdullillah (thanks to Allah) O Allah I am in poverty to your mercy”. He then wiped his face with his two hands, grabbed his bag, and left the mosque. The scene was emotionally overwhelming.

Before three nights of this incident, similar emotions hit me for a similar situation but in a different context. It was a peaceful gathering for remembrance (Dhikir) held in one of the mosques. It happened that the person sitting beside me is a young kid, whose head can barely reach my waist. The kid did not have an Arabic look, and later I learnt that he is visiting from one of the (Western) European countries. The kid is approximately ten years, and he was immersed in the Dhikir and kept his eyes closed most of the time. Seeing kids attending such gatherings did not catch my attention as it is the habit of pious people to bring their children to such spiritual gatherings. However, what moved me was the two drops of tears taking their path through the soft skin of the kid’s cheeks. When we left, I shook hand with him and ask him if he liked the gathering. He looked at me in the eyes and said: “how could anyone not like this”, and we spoke none after that. I felt that the kid understood something about the importance and the effect of the Dhikir on the soul, and regardless of his young age which hindered him from expressing it his eyes delivered the message. All I remember now of what happened afterwards is that I wept when I was home.

When the disabled left the mosque, I remained in my place for half an hour forgetting completely about the appointed lunch. When I left the mosque, the old man was still praying, the man with the two kids was still resting on the walls and the man in the corner was still moving his lips and flipping the Quran pages.

What is that power that moved the heart of an insane and the soul of the kid? Did the disabled really understand what poverty, gratitude and mercy was? Did the kid really understand the words of the Dhikir? What is that spiritual meaning that they comprehended, and most of us have missed?

In these situations, there is little time for reflection or contemplation, for the answer appears in front of your eyes. The idea attacks you and lifts all your being to listen to it. He is the owner of the hearts. He flips the hearts as He wishes. He is the Guider. He is the Beloved. He is the Light. He is the One. To Him belongs all creation and order.

There is a fragrance of happiness that airs the soul, for there are some people that pray to him and are not grimed with sins. This is a piece of beauty. There is an atmosphere of fright that shakes the heart for His full control of the hearts. This is a piece of majesty. There is an overpowering feeling of nothingness, weakness and helplessness towards His Order that governs the universe with all its atoms and planets. This is a gentle call for submitting everything to his Oneness.

The One who causes the surface of the water to wave, the One who sways the branches with the breeze, the One who taught the wet bird to quiver in order to dry its feathers, the One who made the plant shakes in the seed before it appears, the One who flicks the wings of the angles, the One who shivers the skins of the believers when His words are recited, is definitely worth trusting to move our hearts to His presence, and free our souls from the chains of heedlessness.