Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
By the mixture of dresses, beards and raisins, there seemed to be a widespread repres-
entation of the Islamic faith here: the devout, strict adherents, as well as the more casual,
pragmatic types like Turbo. Among the men, I saw several Salafists - these men, in strict
traditional dress, were standing together, but somehow apart from the rest.
'They follow the
wahhabi
doctrine,' explained Turbo. 'It comes from Saudi Arabia.
There never used to be any here. My mum used to say that, in the '60s and '70s, no women
ever wore the veil - and anyone with a beard would have been considered barmy. But it's
different now. Lots of poor Egyptians went to find work in Saudi when I was a kid, back
in the '80s and '90s. When they came back, they looked like relics from the Middle Ages.
That's what Salafism is - they think the oldest form of Islam must be the purest. Now all
the women look like . . . bloody ninjas.'
I looked at the men he was pointing out. You could spot the Salafists by their long black
beards and the absence of a moustache.
'They look like Abraham Lincoln.' Turbo chuckled. 'Look, you hang out over there, at
the back. It's about to begin . . .'
At Turbo's instruction, I retreated to the back of the mosque, while he took up a spot
on the front line. By the time all the men had entered, the mosque was crammed with two
hundred devotees. Most had brought their own personal prayer mats, and they congregated
in straight lines ten deep. At the front of the room, the Imam began the prayers - or
salat
- with a rhythmic recital of the
raka'ah
, in which the worshippers joined together in say-
ing the
Takbir
. 'Allahu Akbar!' they cried.
God is Great!
As one, the crowd bent down on
their hands and knees and fell to the floor, first kneeling and then pressing their foreheads
to the ground. Even the old men seemed flexible enough to perform the operation with
grace. The whole process was repeated countless times, interspersed with chanting from
the Imam and repetitions from the congregation. It was such a mesmerising scene that I
quickly lost track of time. In that moment, I deeply admired and respected the sense of
purpose and community that Islam creates. Even Turbo - or, rather, Mahmoud - who was
as Western a man as you could meet, seemed utterly devoted for this one moment in time.
The final prayer was uttered and the roar of 'Amen!' flooded across the courtyard.
Everywhere, faces broke into smiles - and I could sense the eagerness with which every-
one was looking forward to breaking the fast. Turbo turned to me, and slowly he opened
his mouth to call me near.
Then all hell broke loose.
In a second, everything changed. No sooner had the last 'Amen' faded away, than two
armed policemen thundered through the gates, thrusting anyone who stood in their way
to one side. From the back of the mosque, I started; the policemen were heading directly
for Turbo. I cried out to warn him - but, too late, they barrelled him aside, grabbing the
man who had been standing behind him. Turbo twirled around, bewildered, while cries of
