The Mosque on Church Street

Despite his best efforts, Imam Kenan, upon seeing the meager congregation gathered before him, could not help but reminisce about the grand opening of this mosque here on Church Street.

The sermon began twenty minutes past schedule, per the droves of people still coming in. The number was so large that carpets had to be rolled out on the hardwood floor outside the main prayer hall. Members of the board carried plastic boxes to collect cash donations, frequently emptying them in the main bin before returning for more. “And say, ‘The truth has come, and falsehood has passed away: falsehood is bound to pass away!’” A cry of “Takbir!” launched a chorus of “Allahu Akbar!” that the imam couldn’t help but smile at. Now, really getting to survey the full geography of the space standing atop the minbar—and feeding off all the eyes on him—Imam Kenan permitted himself a chance to truly celebrate the achievement: Where there once stood a priest now stands me! Where there once was a cross now reads “Allah!” And what was once a church is now a mosque! He then continued and completed his sermon, and the rest of the day was spent tending to the assembly, everyone happy and relaxed with no end to their jovial mood in sight.

And now it was empty, or at least much closer to empty than full, and moving closer by the day.

He could see the same three faces waiting for him then. There was the old man Muharem, whose oldest son married an American, and who hasn’t been back to Bosnia in well over a decade and constantly asks whether what the others say about it is true (“Did they close the old theater? And are all our kids really using drugs? I can’t believe it!”). There was Faris—“the Balkan Tony Montana”—sporting a pink suit jacket and prayer beads for a necklace, who always asked the imam to pray for his latest business venture (without giving details), but who was also one of the mosque’s biggest donors (which he didn’t dare question). And, finally, there was Senad, fresh off his third divorce and currently in the fifth pious period of his life, dangling the keys to his bike by his pinky and eager to tell Imam Kenan about his plans to move into a tekija and renounce the world.

But, as the three musketeers of the mosque approached him, Imam Kenan noticed a fourth behind them whom he’d never seen before: a young man in his twenties, fair complexion, in just jeans and a tee with no watches or jewelry, carrying a book in his hand and walking with his back bent and head down like a beggar or servant with no pomp to speak of.

“Oh, efendija, I don’t want it to be true, I don’t!”

“What’s that, Muharem?” Never one to forfeit good manners, the imam turned to face the old man, but he did his best to keep an eye on the young newcomer while doing so, shooting side-eyes and full glances whenever he could.

“Our people down there are losing faith, efendija, they’re losing Islam!”

“Why do—”

“A friend from high school passed away. I saw it on Facebook. I see pictures—also on Facebook—of the dženaza… Efendija, they put a photo of him on the tombstone, like the Orthodox! Tell me, are our people starting to do this now? Is this really the way it is? My father would’ve killed them if they tried to bury him under that!”

“Well, I’ve definitely seen more of it now. I even gave a hutba on it once.” It was one of his many sermons given to a thin crowd, with most visitors more invested in their phones than in his preaching. On those occasions, he was grateful for the old men like Muharem who prayed in chairs since they couldn’t quickly leave after prayers like the rest.

“But what about our mufti, hasn’t he mentioned it? Can’t he tell them to cut it out?”

“He can try, but it’s tough. I can write to him and see. Anyway,” he raised his head and pointed at the others waiting, “I want to get to everyone before I retire for the night. You, young man—”

“Efendija!” It was Faris speaking now, and Imam Kenan could see the youth’s mouth open then close during the interruption. For a split second, their eyes met fully, and the imam tried to convey a silent apology through them. “It’s beautiful, absolutely beautiful! What class this place has now!” He joined his fingers together and kissed them, like something someone would do in one of his mob movies.

“Oh, yes, yes it is… What’s beautiful exactly, dear Faris?” They were nearing the shoe racks just to the side of the prayer hall. Senad was closely trailing the imam and Faris. Muharem and the boy grabbed and put on their shoes, the former heading for the exit, and the latter at a comfortable distance patiently waiting in the hallway. 

Faris pointed back at where they’d come from. “The new chandelier! Remember the old one? I was happy to help replace that ugly thing!”

“Ah, right, I remember,” the imam answered pensively, desperate to keep things short. He could see the boy in the hallway, and there was still Senad to speak to… “Thank you, Faris. But I—”

“You can always count on me, efendija! And what’s the next project? Why not a new carpet, a handwoven Persian one? I’ve got a guy who gets them straight from Iran—we’ve started doing some business—and he’d be willing to sell us some. Here’s his number: eight—”

“Dear Faris, you know I forget things easily; write it on some paper for me. Here, let’s head to the library. Senad—”

“And his name is Ali—”

“Perfect, Faris—”

“Efendija!”

“Yes, Senad.” They walked to the mosque library, the three of them and the young man. Imam Kenan finally got the chance to greet the humble stranger with a handshake, but neither could get a word in just yet.

“I mean it when I say I feel like my moment is coming! I mean, it feels so close!”

“How close, Senad?” He sarcastically smirked as he asked the question and opened the door to the library. “And what kind of moment?”

“My initiation, efendija, in some place I’ve never been… And I wish I knew when! But, funnily enough, I told my second wife this years ago, that I’d get this feeling decades in the future, this exact feeling… It’s got to mean something.”

“It just may, Senad. Allah can elevate one’s rank in an instant.” It was the imam’s tried-and-true statement for those souls like Senad who always seemed to oscillate between the two extremes of sainthood and unbelief; he’d already told it to him two previous times.

“Subhanallah, wow… Imam Kenan, may Allah reward you! That’s exactly what I needed to hear!” He tried to grab and kiss his hand, but the imam pulled it back out of humbleness. Others besides Senad sometimes tried to do the same, and he wasn’t sure where this came from. It seems like they still think I’m the same man from our opening day, he thought. Surely, a real friend of Allah, someone truly deserving of that treatment, would somehow keep this mosque half-full!

Faris tapped Imam Kenan on the shoulder and pointed to the note on the table where he’d written his business partner’s number before heading out. The excited and renewed Senad continued to speak a little more, but the imam didn’t pay much mind to it; the stranger was browsing the bookshelves with a librarian’s touch, methodically tracing his finger across the different spines, with a growing stack of ones that he found interesting beside him.

“…And I think I’m ready to get married again, efendija; you know better than me that marriage is half of din, and I don’t want to take this next step on my own!”

“Of course not, Senad, I’ll ask around.” He tried once more to kiss the imam’s hand but settled for a handshake after another refusal, then left the library walking backward with his palm on his heart like a murid before his shaykh. There was silence again, save for the shuffling of books that sounded like music to Imam Kenan; he couldn’t recall the last time someone besides himself had leafed through these shelves.

“I’m so terribly sorry for keeping you waiting so long; regulars and patrons tend to demand my immediate attention.”

“Oh, efendija, no worries,” he said kindly, his voice gentle yet powerful. He carefully put back a large tome he’d been examining and turned his body to face the imam. “You’re doing your job, I understand. And it’s good that people want to come to you, especially today.”

“Yes… especially today.” Imam Kenan couldn’t help but find his interlocutor charming; a sudden, strong desire to know everything he could about the youth overtook him. “What’s your name, young man? I don’t believe I’ve seen you in this mosque before.”

“Anis, and this is my first time here; I actually came specifically to see you.”

The imam’s eyes widened in disbelief after Anis’s last remark. “Well, I hate to disappoint you, Anis, but there’s not much to see,” he said, but then his eyes caught the cover of the book Anis had brought with him, and he noticed his name written on it. He squinted to check if he was deceiving himself.

“Oh, this… this is actually what I wanted to talk to you about: it’s your dissertation on the history of our diaspora here, the one you wrote in association with Oxford.” He held the book up for the imam.

It took Imam Kenan a minute to make out what dissertation he was talking about, his academic career being so far behind him. He then remembered it but found himself no less confused. He read that one? “Ah, yes, I know it, though that Oxford ‘association’ was nothing more than a marketing scheme; no one there ever looked at it, I’m certain.” He took it from Anis and rubbed his hand along all its sides, like his touching it would bring him back to his student days—to when he was both hopeful and motivated—either in body, mind, or spirit.

“It’s a brilliant piece of scholarship, one of a kind. I think I’ve ruined it a bit with my garbled notes all over, but it definitely deserved them!”

The imam flipped through the pages and found them as just described, much to his surprise; the notes themselves reminded him of how he annotated his own books. “You’ve really read this… I think you might be the first!”

“More people should, especially those who pray here; this place is a testament to the hard work put in by that first generation.” Anis looked behind and pointed at the stack of books he’d picked. “Oh, and I could put these back if you want. I didn’t mean to—”

“Take them, please, for as long as you’d like.” He looked up at Anis with the same smile he’d had on opening day. “Just no notes!” he quipped sarcastically.

“Are you sure?”

“Certain.”

“I promise I’ll bring them back soon, efendija, I shouldn’t need more than a week—”

“Don’t rush, Anis.” He handed back his dissertation. “And you’re always welcome! Please, come often!”

“Inshallah, I plan to, efendija.”

“Just call me Kenan.”