Under ground

Today, we headed to Arab Street. Strange saying it, even stranger writing it, but it is so. There is a street here named just that. And along this street and throughout the area, you can find an assortment of items. The typical souvenirs, rugs, jewelry, non-alcoholic perfume, clothing. We saw a store with a row of tunics and matching veils side-by-side a velvet wall hanging of Jesus. Unusual.

They say that Singapore is a fine city, as in, you get fined for everything, chewing gum, defacing property, et al. But I couldn't imagine that any cosmopolitan place in the world wouldn't have graffiti. And so, down what is said to be the smallest street in Singapore, Haji Lane, I tapped into Singapore's graffiti community. A funky little strip of cafes, shops, galleries, Haji Lane is the most outside-the-box place of this tiny rhombus of a country. If anything is underground in Singapore, this is it. You can relax and smoke a hookah or buy second-hand Japanese brand clothing. Shop-houses on the second level are decorated with artistic elements. On Haji, anything goes, within governmental reason, of course.

Around the corner, I saw the first Muslim cemetery of my life. A plot of land, covered in cement stones that resemble large chess pieces, extended out behind one of the mosques. No indication of who had been buried where, if anywhere, I was left with more questions than answers, intrigued and wanting to know more.

I also entered the first mosque of my life today. Removing my shoes and covering my shoulders, I was met by a guide who reviewed the house rules. No video cameras, no shoes, appropriate covering of body parts, no stepping on the carpet and no going up the stairs. Ok. I walked in expecting something. The hidden secrets of what? Allah only knows. Having been prevented from entering the mosque we visited before, and my mom every other mosque she'd ever visited, there is something taboo, forbidden crossing the threshold. But honestly, the main prayer room looked like a hotel convention room, minus the tables and chairs, with an alcove at the end. Fully carpeted, well-lit. I believe the alcove at the end is the qibla, indicating the direction of Mecca.

From what I understand, Islam discourages idolatry and excess, favoring simplicity. It was indeed simple. There were no embossed crucifixions, no ornate pews or chandeliers, no microphone system for the preacher. A few men came and went, as did women, although they are relegated to the balcony to pray, hidden from view by a screen. Different bindings of the Koran were available on shelves throughout the main room, and a wheelchair lift was hidden in the back.

Let's face it. Islam is a mystery to me. From customs of women being required to cover themselves to hearing of eight year-old girls being married off to fifty year-old men in Saudi Arabia, I struggle to untangle and understand what it is to be Muslim. For the women. For the men. But in a mosque today, it seemed no different than praying in any church, temple, synagogue. Although I have to admit, the thought of being put up in the balcony reminded me of scenes in the movie To Kill a Mockingbird. Only in this instance, we'd all be segregated by genitalia.