Mosques

Sunday, September 23, 2012

Giza, Egypt

The Day's Agenda

Citadel of Salah Al-Din

Mosque & School of Sultan Hassan

Mosque of Al Rifa'i

Lunch at Andrea (shipboard)

Khan el Khalili (walk and tea)

I can't read anyone today, and that bothers me. As a group, we are still feeling each other out, trying to find the connections that link us. Would an off-hand remark lead to offense with this person? Will that person play if you offer them a decent lead? What does someone's pensive, distant stare mean? Is there a profound thought in the offing? What sort of dynamic is there between those two?

It will come clear in time, but at the moment, it feels like I'm on stage without a line in my head.

But human interest stories are not my strong suit, so let's get on to the tiresome details of the day so we can all go to sleep.

In my previous five visits to Cairo, I have never visited the Citadel. Don't ask me where it is, exactly, because I have only the most general idea. It's on a hill, overlooking the city, just past the expansive City of the Dead, the Mamluk necropolis where otherwise homeless Cairenes live in untended shrines built to the dead. The Citadel is a bright white medieval fortress and mosque built on a hill, overlooking the smog and haze of modern Cairo. The sun beat down on us as Mohammed, our local guide, held forth on the history of the city, who did what, and when. He did this at length. In the merciless sun. And so, when we went inside the mosque, the dark and the cool was like a blessing from God. There were red carpets everywhere, and one could sit quietly under a vast circle of hanging glass lamps, each lit with a single electric bulb, looking faintly like the war room in Dr. Strangelove.

Inside the Mohammed Ali mosque. Cairo

The calm is utterly broken at 11:50 when the call to prayer sounds. The Call is usually loud outside of a mosque, but inside, it is deafening. It's our cue to leave.

A short bus ride past the city of the dead took us to the adjacent mosques of Sultan Hassan and Rif'a. They are separated by a wide set of stone steps where a cool breeze blows seemingly without end. And there are cats, which always endears me to a place. The mosque of Sultan Hassan was built in the 14^th century as both a mosque and school. It contains a large courtyard with a massive domed structure which is supported by a circle of columns. The four sides of the courtyard lead off to large open spaces with soaring roofs and lamps which hang from impossibly long chains, and which sway very gently in the breeze. I often tone-deaf to sacred spaces, but this place seems to invite a certain amount of peace and contemplation from its visitors, both the devout, and the infidel alike. Because the courtyard is open to the key, you have an impression of being both outside and inside at the same time, as if to suggest that even in contemplation of the divine, you are still a part of the world, and that what happens there also happens in the busyness of the wide world.

The mosque of Al Rifa'i was built much later, but was made to match that of Sultan Hassan. It is the final resting place of King Farouk and of the last Shah of Iran. And also a sheik from whom people sought healing – his memorial features what might pass for coloured Christmas lights back home. It lends a sense of liveliness that emphasizes his relevance today, I suppose. 

A middle-aged man who walked with the aid of crutches led us to a far corner of the building to show us a mausoleum, which was a large marble sarcophagus, decorated with architectural features. It was in its own room which was on the order of 12 on a side, and well over 20 high – we were clearly at the base of a very tall stone tower. And then the man sang the Call to Prayer. He was a muezzin, and his voice was clear and strong. Each phrase filled the tower, and each pause gave space for the sound to echo and fade.

It was beautiful.

And it was complete on its own. No further comment from me is required. But – in that moment when the final words were pronounced, as you follow the sound rise and fall, you are left in a mind which is still, daring not to move, lest you break some sort of spell. It is the moment before moving, before coming out of yourself, in reconnecting to the world that is of value. When you realize you have been taken somewhere, and you did not even realize it.

The sun sets in the akhet -- between the pyramids of Khafre and Khufu. On the road to Giza.