“The Cathedral and the Qur’an School”
Carrie Hanson
I step off the bus with my fellow classmates and look up at walls of the Medina. Fes. The oldest city in Morocco, dating back to the 9th century. After an early morning wake up, a three-hour bus ride – the majority of which I spend in silent, sleepy contemplation, watching the country glide by – I finally stand with my face towards the sun. Just past the walls of the Medina, I spy a few seafoam green minarets of mosques towering over the rest of the city, marking the Islamic presence the few days we’d spent in Rabat.
We meet Mohammed, the compact man who will lead us through the souks, the small market-lined streets of the Old City. As we squeeze through narrow passageways, the rusty smell of earth floats up from our shuffling feet. Emerging into a souk as wide as I am tall, I grab onto the bag of my friend walking in front of me. Mohammed shouts back at us – something about the copper bowls hanging on the wall of the store to our right – but we can’t hear him. In part because of his thick Moroccan accent, and in part because his words are lost in the clamor of life that pervades the city.
***
Only a few days earlier I was wandering through the streets of Paris on one of my free afternoons. I happened upon a small cathedral and noted its name as I entered.
Saint Eustache. Huh. Eustache. Kind of sounds like mustache.
I forced this thought out of my mind and tried to focus on my surroundings. I made my way to a wicker chair and lowered myself onto it. It was identical to the others that stretched out in front of me, replacing the expected pews. I assumed those chairs were hardly more comfortable than the one I perched on.
Saint Eustache, like the numerous other Saint Something’s I’d visited in my three weeks in France, presented all the predictable elements of Gothic architecture. The facades were pocketed with carvings and statues biblical of scenes. High above me, the high vaulted ceilings spider-webbed across. Footsteps echoed against cold stone walls that time has turned into an ashy gray. Stained glass windows let in the occasional dusty ray of light. At the far side of the nave – the name for the main open part of the cathedral, as I learned in my art history class – a cross loomed over its congregation, of which I was temporarily a part.
As I explored Paris, I’d discovered churches like Saint Eustache sprinkled throughout the city. These Gothic majesties seemed as ubiquitous as the open air cafés that dotted each corner. I was initially enthralled by these monuments; I entered every single one I found. I read each and every booklet, pamphlet, and blog that could shed light on the church’s troubled yet powerful past. Each visit was more or less the same: I mindfully made my pilgrimage around the perimeter. Occasionally I took pictures then glanced around for looks of disapproval at the American tourist whose camera clicked. Eventually, I settled in a chair towards the back. I sat in Saint Eustache as I sat in Saint Severin, Saint Etienne-du-Mont, Saint Sulpice, and others: hands in my lap, eyes wide, and feet planted firmly on the aged floor.
***
Mohammed stops us several times to explain various parts of the city. We see products from the tannery that we’ll visit later. A library where students from the local university study. High walls that shelter families who have lived here for generations.
There’s a mosque we can’t enter. Only Muslims are permitted to enter the mosque. We peer through the arch along with our fellow tourists, and gaze upon the open air courtyard, elbowing one-another for a decent picture of the calligraphy adorned walls, brightly tiled floors, and gurgling fountain. Mohammed’s words float past me and I catch snippets about “…calligraphy from the Qur’an…” and “…the Friday prayers…” but my attention is better held by the walls so resembling honeycomb that I’m almost expecting bees to crawl out of them.
We don’t get to linger. The crowd of tourists and Moroccans alike herd us away from the mosque and back into the bustle of the souks. Eventually, we get a chance to slow down as we enter a Qur’an school. Mohammed surely explains the actual function of a Qur’an school, but my mind is occupied by trying to take in the four walls that surround me.
The lack of roof means that the area about the size of four classrooms is filled with a warm, natural light. This light shines on walls decorated even more elaborately than those of the mosque. Right at eye-level, I’m met with calligraphy of Qur’an passages so intricate that at first I mistake it for an extended image of foliage. Below that, I’m overwhelmed by color. Tiles of an iridescent ocean blue meet others the color of sunshine, of freshly watered grass, of milk chocolate. Their sharp – and yet somehow comforting – geometrical designs wrap around the lower half of the room. Above the Qur’anic passages are those honeycombed arches of a time-worn white. The walls don’t leave a single space unadorned as they reach up and brush the heavens.
***
Every time I sat in those wicker chairs, I waited. Waited for a feeling. I’m in a church. A Catholic church. Made in the 15th century. I ended up thinking as I rewrapped my scarf and hugged my jacket closer to my body. Shouldn’t it feel more…churchy? While I was raised Protestant, just like the other blonde Minnesotans I grew up with, I figured a Catholic establishment was close enough for me to be able to find some sort of spiritual presence. I felt like I didn’t have much of a connection with either denomination anyway. I had a sort of friendly falling out with my faith sometime in high school, but now, I wanted it back. I hadn’t gone to France with this intention. But after the first time I stepped foot in the high vaulted magnificence, after realizing the overwhelming presence of these religious monuments, I made a conscious decision that it was time to make an effort again. And I figured that if I was going to have any sort of religious epiphany, where else but a centuries old building whose purpose was to inspire religious fervor?
So I waited. Patiently, calmly. Hoping for a feeling. What this feeling actually was, well, I imagined I’d know it when I felt it.
After ten or twenty minutes, I stood up from the wicker imitation pews and shuffled toward the exit. I pulled off my scarf as the sun found my skin, relieved to feel warmth through my body again. To feel something again. What am I doing wrong?
***
And then I’m feeling. The longer I exist in this place, the less I feel like it’s just four walls with eye-catching designs. I’m slowly but powerfully overwhelmed by that something that evaded me as I sat in those church chairs. I close my eyes and take a deep, slow breath as warmth fills me to my toes. In the crowded space, I silently make my pilgrimage, trying to come to terms with what exactly it is I’m feeling. This comfort and presence that I feel in the Qur’an school. This feeling of more than what is immediately around me. I’m hesitant to employ the G word. But if He – It, She, Whatever – is here, then what am I supposed be discovering? Is this feeling of comfort, the feeling of feeling enough?
But then the cynical part of me wonders if I’m building it up. I can see the Onion article now: “White Girl Goes to Non-Western Country and Has Spiritual Awakening.” I don’t want to be a cliché. I know I don’t belong to this belief system. At least those Catholic cathedrals fell under the umbrella of Christianity that I grew up with. And while Islam isn’t unfamiliar to me – I’ve taken classes about it, I have several Muslim friends and I attend their holiday celebrations – I have no right to it. Am I allowed to feel connected to a religion that isn’t mine?
I finish my circuit with my hand brushing the tiled walls. My classmates decide it’s time for group pictures, so I bare my teeth in a way that I hope passes for normal. I can’t possibly explain to my friends what is going on in my mind if I don’t really even know myself. So I say, “It’s amazing.” “Look at that calligraphy.” “I… it’s… there’s… wow.”
We finally exit the Qur’an school and as we return into the shouts of the souks, I’m exhausted. I think. Or maybe I’m elated.
I’m not sure. But I know I’m feeling. Unexpectedly, overwhelmingly. Feeling.
What did I do right?
I don’t think I care. I stand with my face towards the sun and let myself bask in the feeling.
