I loved the fans (which relieved the scorching heat and thick humidity), and their sweet simplicity. Bright red iced Vimto and sweets given to everyone after night prayer in the mosque. (Memorial services were called ‘lessons’, and followed by people reciting the Quran to bless the soul of the departed. I was always overcome with emotion whilst listening to that orchestra of murmurs under the mosque’s glaring neon lights and through the roar of the electric fans.)
So began praying on the Friday of Anger. I noticed, happily, that I still remembered the rituals of prayer: the words, intonation, motions.
Just before the end, as everyone was kneeling and silently mouthing the tashahhud, a small child who had come to pray with his father stood up. In the middle of the worshippers deep in pray
