Memories of the Mosque

The neighborhood I live in boasts at least four mosques. The early morning call from the mosque is at 5:30. Al-fajr, or al-fajiri in Swahili. The normal call in the morning is Allahu Akbar, but as the protests wore on, the calls became more complex, interweaving songs, as though the muezzin were speaking to each other. Speaking to Arabic speaking colleagues, I realized that each of these calls had a political meaning. Some days the muezzin would warn, save water. Other days they would suggest, protect your house. In a country where the government had shut down Internet, and texting, had made al jazeera in Arabic illegal, and had even made it impossible to call internationally, this society reverted quite elegantly to their oral tradition.