A day at the Mosque

Khaleel has invited me other places as well.  Last week he told me that there was a Professor from London speaking at his Mosque, something on the topic of “Islam and the West,” and it would be in English to boot.  Always a sucker for such events, I showed up, and was led into a large conference room dominated by a circle of clothed tables.  If you’ve ever watched c-span…. never mind… odds are you haven’t.  I’ll just say that it reminded me of being at a fancy press-conference, as each seat had its own thin-stemmed microphone growing out of the table that you had to lean over to talk into (like a member of congressional committee saying something pointless and boring). 

 

As soon as I walked in the door, Khaleel apologized and informed me that the professor from London couldn’t make it, so someone else would be giving a talk.  What I thought would be just another lecture turned into the latest chapter of a book I like to call “I’ll bet Tyler has never heard of (insert name of religion), and if only Tyler just heard the basic teachings of (insert name of religion) explained to him as if he is a shallow, 13 year old boy, he would see all the benefits it could bring to his life, and thus joyfully convert, worshiping/meditating/shrinking heads in the name of (insert preferred object of reverence) and become one of us.”  The “lecture” was about “how Islam makes you an optimal person,” a topic that has not made my reading list yet.  But hey, when you’re waiting at the dentist office, you don’t complain that their “US Weekly” is a month old, you browse at what’s in front of you god damnit. 

 

So there I was, me and my microphone.  But I was quickly becoming bored with the topic, and annoyed with the slow pace of this Syrian’s English.  After an hour and a half, it was time for questions.  Naturally, there were none from the twenty-some adult male Muslims who had clearly helped organize the event, and were therefore already familiar with the basic, almost superficial explanations provided by the lecture.  That left me and two others who Khaleel had brought (a Brit, and a Japanese kid who turned out to be a Zen Buddhist); in fact, I had a growing feeling that we were the only reason that this event was being put on.

 

I’m guessing almost everyone has been to those terrible speeches where there is that awkward silence when it is apparent that no one is going to ask the speaker a question.  In this case, the silence was broken by Khaleel’s question.  But this was of no relief to the room’s tension.  Because when he—resembling one of those bald congressmen—leaned over to his microphone, I heard, “Tyler, the other day when I asked you, you said that your parents do not practice the same religion.  What religion do you believe?”

 

Shit. As much as I was anticipating this confrontation, I still felt surprised.  I looked around the room to see all of these people waiting intently for my answer.  That’s when I first noticed the cameraman; and he was getting what must have been a good close-up.  Yup, look for me on late-night c-span, or some internet broadcast of boring speeches on Islam, cause they were taping the whole thing. 

 

I clicked my microphone on and spent about four minutes saying the least offensive things I could without lying.  By that, I mean I used my 5 years of philosophy training to say a great deal about nothing.  In other settings I would be happy to tell them exactly what I believed.  However, in Syria, we foreigners skate on very thin ice.  We can very easily lose our invitation to stay in the country, for example, by saying something offensive about religion.  And since I love President al-Ba…shir, and agree with everything he does, and think that his intelligence services are doing a very good job keeping the country safe, I would hate for them to misinterpret something I said on camera (or in a café, or on a blog) as being offensive or in any way contrary to the greatness of Syria. 

 

As for the other two foreigners there, the Zen Buddhist was able to escape his questioning by playing what some of my friends call “the Asian card.”  This is something you would do in order get out of trouble in a foreign country.  (Some of you loyal readers may remember my successful use of such a tactic when I was caught trespassing in the Czech Republic by a couple of cops, and my failure to use such a tactic when I was caught cheating on my rail-pass in Spain and thrown off the train in a small desert town).  In his case, when the questions got uncomfortable, his English all-of-the-sudden became very bad, and he had a hard time understanding what they meant, making further inquiry pointless.  As for the Brit, he politely dismissed himself just as it was his turn. 

I was the only one who was stupid enough to answer.