Abu Dhabi, The Grand Mosque

To travel is to discover that everyone is wrong about other countries.
~ Aldous Huxley

As I mentioned yesterday, our Princess excursion coordinator, Vanieza, tried to make sure all the women heading for the Grand Mosque were suitably attired (Read: completely covered head to toe with only face, hands and feet visible.) However, a few slipped past her that didn’t quite meet the requirements.

No worries. Our tour guide, Peter, had 8 or so extra abayas for ladies to slip on over their clothing. My new friend Debbie (the tall fellow beside her is Jim) from Sioux Falls, South Dakota decided to take him up on one. (A side note to my nephew Josh who’s the assistant manager of a Fareway Store there. They usually shop in the newer store instead of yours.)  Debbie’s such a sweet person and her sleeves didn’t quite reach her wrists. She didn’t want to take any chances on offending the sensibilities of our Muslim hosts missing being admitted to the mosque. (Remember #2 Travel Directive: Respect the culture of the country you visit.) Several ladies on our bus borrowed abayas from Peter.

At first, as a western woman, I chafed under the need to submit to someone else’s idea of appropriate apparel. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized I follow dress codes all the time. I go to church in my best. When we have formal nights on board the Pacific Princess, I bling it up so that even my mom, the Queen of Bling, would be proud! It costs me very little to obey the rules so I can visit a place that would normally be barred to infidels and women.   

Peter offered an abaya to a lady whose long dress only reached slightly below mid-calf, exposing her lower legs and ankles. She reached for the abaya, but her husband cut her off saying curtly, ”She doesn’t want that.”

That sent my eyebrows up. Obviously, she was willing to wear one, but she didn’t because he decided she wouldn’t. 

As we walked to a security check point, several officers in dishdashes (the long white robe worn by Arab men) eyed the DH and me carefully, trying to puzzle out why he was wearing a backpack that was connected to me by 7 ft. of clear plastic tubing. I fully expected we would be separated by gender during the security check and I’d need to carry Herkimer (my portable oxygen concentrator in the backpack), but I didn’t have to. When the DH took the backpack off, a fine (dare I say, hawkishly handsome?) young man carried it for me over to the ladies’ line where he handed it off to a female security officer. She took Herkimer and me into a private side room.

“It’s heavy,” she said.

“That’s why my husband carries it for me.”

She smiled at that. Then she inspected Herkimer and gave me a quick pat down so I wouldn’t have to go through the metal detector. She carried Herkimer back to the male officer, who helped the DH put it back on. Before the young woman left my side, she said softly,  “Go safely, Mama.”

So kind. So respectful. So gracious.  

It was one of those small moments that made me realize I have had a skewed impression of Islamic culture. I needed to adjust my thinking.

On to the Sheikh Zayed Grand Mosque. It’s the 4^th largest in the world. There are 82 onion-shaped domes. It’s designed with perfect symmetry—no odd numbers of anything, be it columns or minarets. The cool reflecting pools and shaded colonnades invite a contemplative mood.

We took off our shoes to enter the structure so we wouldn’t sully the exquisitely inlaid marble floor. It surely would have been a sin to scuff up on these lovely designs with the soles of our shoes. (Yes, Mom, we kept our socks on!)

This beautiful open courtyard will hold 19,000 worshippers.  

It was at this point in our tour that a mosque guard approached the woman with the calf-length dress and asked that she go no farther because her apparel did not meet the requirements. Her husband ordered her to go back to the gift shop and wait there for him while he completed the tour alone.

Grrr!

The labyrinth of a spiteful mind is too much for me to dwell on for long. Back to the glories of Islamic architecture. 

Peter explained that the decorated columns of inlaid marble and mother-of-pearl were fashioned by an Italian artist. The Koran forbids the representation of human forms in art, but flowers are a favorite subject matter.

We walked through this colonnade on our way to the men’s prayer room. Its graceful arches and perfect symmetry gave me such a feeling of tranquility. It was like a Mozart symphony—a reaffirmation that there is still order and beauty in the world.

The ceiling of this anteroom caught my eye. It reminded me of the Book of Kells, a medieval illuminated codex I saw at Trinity College in Dublin a few years ago. Like that incredible manuscript, the more you look at this ceiling, the more layers you see, and the deeper it pulls you into itself. Notice the repeating 5-sided figure in the center. This alludes to the Five Pillars of Islam. (I don’t know that those are yet, but when I do, I’ll share them.)

Looking toward one of the alcoves. Yep, that's an alcove.

I kept expecting the women in our group to be pulled off at any moment because we were about to enter the men’s prayer room. Muslim women must pray in another space, which we did not see. But we were all allowed to continue and soon I—a woman and a Christian—was standing in a place that was usually forbidden. I realized then how great a concession our Muslim hosts were making. They were breaking their own rules for us. The last remnants of my selfish irritation at being told how to dress fizzled away.

Detail of the carpet--How intricate the design work!

The prayer room is massive, with twin alcoves stretching off from the main section to run the full width of the mosque. The floor is covered with this exquisite hand woven carpet. The wool is from New Zealand and it took 1200 women fourteen months to complete.  The seams run the full width of the space and about four inches of one strip of carpet has been laid on top of the next one to create a slight bump. This is to delineate the space allowed for each worshipper.  An man is supposed to put his feet on that slight rise and kneel forward. His space ends at the next long bump in the carpet where the heels of the next worshipper will rest.

The chandelier in the center of the prayer room is fashioned of Swarovski crystals and is the largest chandelier in the world. Two smaller versions of it illuminate each of the side alcoves. On the wall behind the chandelier, the 99 names of God according to the Koran are listed in flowing Arabic script in the center of each of the stylized five-petal flower motifs.

I mentioned earlier the symmetry of the place. Everything seems to be in even numbers, but the designers couldn’t add another name to a list given by the Prophet. So they placed one empty flower (above the golden arrow that points to Mecca) on the wall. I like to think it’s not just to make the flowers an even hundred. I think it’s there because there’s another name for the Almighty that only God knows.  

I started this post with Huxley’s quote about everybody being mistaken about other countries. That includes me. A big part of travel is having my preconceived notions challenged. The visit to the Grand Mosque made me rethink a number of things about Islamic culture. The people we met there were warm and hospitable. They don’t deserve to be lumped in with the extremists who have hijacked their religion. Heaven knows, I’d hate for all Christians to be seen through the hateful prism of that church in Kansas that disrupts funeral services of fallen soldiers.

Respect was the major theme of the day. Respect for ourselves. Respect for others. Respect for God.

I can support that all day.