Laura’s abroad in Amman, Jordan, until Dec. 19.

Tonight I visited a mosque for the first time with one of my Arabic teachers and a few other female students. I’m sure we made quite a sight –- a bunch of fair-skinned Americans self-consciously fumbling with head scarves by the light of a streetlamp outside a mosque in the middle of Amman. With all our hair and skin covered, we removed our shoes and walked in.

I must say I was surprised that we were not actually going in the mosque; instead, we went under it and into the basement. Apparently only the men are allowed to pray in the actual mosque. We went to a long, unremarkable room and listened to the imman’s voice broadcast through a speaker. The walls were lined with shelves for shoes and posters with Qaranic verses. Children ran around, pulling on their mothers’ robes and trying their best to distract them from their prayers. The women stood in straight rows of 50 or more, kneeling and prostrating on command. Their foreheads touched the thick blue carpet almost in unison. The breeze created by the ceiling fans caused their long robes and abiyas to billow around them. Some were dressed in all black, while others were wore delicate floral prints or checks. Sequins and beads adorned some head scarves, while others were plain and white. As I watched from the back of the room, all I saw was a wall of multicolored fabric standing and kneeling. It was quite beautiful.

After she completed a set of prayers, my Arabic teacher explained them. When you stand with your feet together and your hands across your belly, you are signifying that the only space you own on earth is the space beneath your feet. It’s supposed to be a humbling posture: no matter how much wealth you have, you still only occupy that small space. Next, you bend over with your hands on your knees, showing deference to Allah. Then you drop to the ground and kneel, touching your forehead to the ground. This is to remind you that you came from the earth and are still part of it. Then you sit up and say that there is no God but Allah and Mohammad is his messenger. Next you turn to each shoulder and greet the two angels sitting there who record all the good and bad deeds that you do. You repeat these movements over and over again, sometimes taking breaks. My Arabic teacher said that some people will stay from after the iftar to the early morning hours.

Then a few other students and I joined the prayer line and started the movements. Honestly, it reminded me a bit of yoga class with all the calisthenics. It was a bit comforting to go through the movements while listening to the soothing chanting of the imam. All the kneeling and standing reminded me of the Catholic Masses of my childhood, minus the fancy altar and candles, of course. I felt extremely uncomfortable in my hijab though, and more than once a nearby woman chided me because it came undone and showed a bit of my collarbone or hairline.

After we finished a set of prayers, about a dozen women came up to me and my classmates. Several wanted to know if we desired Arab husbands, because their sons were available. My Arabic teacher laughed nervously and told them we weren’t on the market just yet. I asked if the women cared whether we were Muslim , and she said no — being American and attractive were sufficient requisites. Other women came up and asked if we were Muslim and what we were doing there. We chatted with them a bit, and a few gave us books about Islam.

On our way out, my teacher showed us the wash room next door and the proper way to cleanse yourself before your prayers. You are supposed to wash your hands, arms, eyes, mouth, nose, face, neck and feet three times each. She methodically washed each of these body parts, counting softly as she splashed water on herself. This is supposed to wash away any dirtiness or sin that you saw or experienced in order to purify yourself before you present yourself to Allah.

Overall, I was struck by how welcoming everyone was in the mosque and I found many of the rituals to be very beautiful. I was a bit unnerved that the women were only allowed to pray in the basement, probably because I’m used to the family atmosphere in my own Catholic church. In the mosque, only the imam seemed to have a role in the service, whereas during Mass, many people help with the readings, collection, and communion. I think I missed the participatory nature of a Christian church service. Nevertheless, the two services were much more alike than I would have imagined. The singing and kneeling were all familiar and comforting. This Sunday I hope to attend a Catholic church here in Amman and see how different my own religion is half a world away from home.

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