Skip to main content

On our first day of school and after lunch, much to my horror I heard the loudspeakers ask that all 4th and 5th graders perform their ablutions and prepare for prayers. I was well aware of the religious nature of the school and so confessing that I didn’t know how to pray was out of the question. I hunted Hooman down and still weary of with how much I could trust him, I only confessed to not knowing how to do ablutions. After getting over his initial shock, he advised me to just go to the faucets and start splashing water on my face and hands and hope that no one took too much notice.

The prayers themselves were group prayers done silently which meant that I could simply copy whatever everyone else was doing around me. But even that would have its challenges. After we finished our first prayer, the 5th grader sitting next to me, Shahrestani, turned to me and asked, “Did you not pray?”


“Of course I did,” I lied.

“I just noticed you were looking around a lot so I assumed you didn’t. Try to stay focused on your prayer rock.”

I made a mental note to look straight ahead to avoid any suspicions. Also in order not to have to perform possibly incorrectly ablutions in front of everyone, I would state that my ablutions from my morning prayers were still valid. From time to time I would get the odd stare about the manner of my prayers but after seeing the rituals every day, it gradually became easier to fake it.

I later picked up another method from Alireza who at times would simply skip going to the prayer room all together and would remain in the schoolyard. While I had a few initial success stories, I ultimately abandoned this plan after being called to the office and being demanded an explanation for my absences (which I blamed on not hearing the loudspeaker announcement).
cement).

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

"My parents, brother, and I left Iran in 1980, shortly after the revolution. After a brief stay in Italy, we packed all our belongings once again and headed west to the exotic and the unknown: Vancouver. We had recently been accepted as landed immigrants, meaning Canada graciously opened its doors and we gratefully accepted; we arrived at Vancouver International Airport on my 10th birthday, three suitcases and one sewing machine in tow. After respectful but intense questioning at immigration, we were dropped off at a hotel on Robson Street, which was then still a couple years shy of becoming the fashionable tourist hub it is today. We were jetlagged, culture shocked, and hungry, so that first night, my father and brother courageously ventured out into the wild in search of provisions. I fell asleep before they returned. The next morning, I woke up at 5 a.m. and ravenously feasted on a cold Quarter Pounder with cheese and limp French fries that had been left by my beds...
One day I took the minibus back from school. It was completely packed yet I somehow managed to squeeze myself in. I knew sooner or later some people would get off and per the unwritten rule of busses and minibuses everyone would gradually move towards the end of the bus and thus save me from getting crushed against the door. We had only travelled a short distance when the minibus stopped to let some passengers off. Another passenger and I stepped down to allow them to pass and as we stood there the passenger suddenly exclaimed, “What happened to my wallet? Did someone just steal it?” I wasn’t sure if he was serious or just making a not-so-comical scene about not identifying which pocket his wallet was in, however, it soon became apparent that his wallet was indeed missing. Initially I briefly considered the possibility that he might have suspected me as the pickpocket and thus directed the earlier conversation towards me. Once we were back on the bus though he repeated his commen...
Has anyone ever danced on the ceiling?