In Za'atari they build their own mosques. Some are make shift affairs but most are comprised of caravans and standard issue UNHCR tents compiled together to emulate a place of worship for the thousands of Syrian refugees in the camp.
Every day except Friday, at one of the larger Mosques run by an incredibly empathetic Imam; it is a mesmerizing scene of relaxed rituals.
In the morning when the girls are at school the boys come pouring in to attend their reading & reciting Quar'an class. In the afternoon the roles are reversed.
Each boy quickly stacks his shoes at the entrance, grabs a Koran from the shelf and walks over respectfully to his designated Imam.
They sit calmly reading and reciting as the sun warms the room and the sound of their sweet voices soothes the air.
They compete amicably for their turn to recite the prayer they have studied overnight as the Imam makes a show of selecting whose Qura'an he will accept.
Gently he corrects them as they eagerly stumble over the difficult words or mispronounce the complex deflections that shower the arabic language of old.
The devout scene is captivating, made more so by the rays of sunshine that create a mystical ambience.
This is a scene that was once replicated in their home towns. Villages that have been razed to the ground when their parents decided to escape to safety with their families and the clothes on their back.
I long for the day these children will return to the innocence of their childhood; but for now this semblance of normalcy and established routine will have to do.
Every day except Friday, at one of the larger Mosques run by an incredibly empathetic Imam; it is a mesmerizing scene of relaxed rituals.
In the morning when the girls are at school the boys come pouring in to attend their reading & reciting Quar'an class. In the afternoon the roles are reversed.
Each boy quickly stacks his shoes at the entrance, grabs a Koran from the shelf and walks over respectfully to his designated Imam.
They sit calmly reading and reciting as the sun warms the room and the sound of their sweet voices soothes the air.
They compete amicably for their turn to recite the prayer they have studied overnight as the Imam makes a show of selecting whose Qura'an he will accept.
Gently he corrects them as they eagerly stumble over the difficult words or mispronounce the complex deflections that shower the arabic language of old.
The devout scene is captivating, made more so by the rays of sunshine that create a mystical ambience.
This is a scene that was once replicated in their home towns. Villages that have been razed to the ground when their parents decided to escape to safety with their families and the clothes on their back.
I long for the day these children will return to the innocence of their childhood; but for now this semblance of normalcy and established routine will have to do.
