Nothing has changed at all

Last Friday, for the first time in more than a year, I went to the mosque. I attended a sermon and participated in a funeral prayer. The deceased was the father of a close friend of mine; I couldn't have missed that regardless of any compelling circumstances.

Before I go on any further, and although it's not really necessary for the reader to know all this, I still would like to talk briefly about the traditions followed in my country (and many other Islamic countries) when a person is given the privilege of leaving us indefinitely. Death is a crisis of an immense magnitude in my culture, if not all cultures, and the extent of commiseration you show is an indicator of how much the deceased and/or their next of kin mean to you. When a Muslim passes away, there are three main phases the deceased would go through in terms of public participation in bidding the last farewell: first, the dead body would be taken to the mosque where the relatives, friends, acquaintances, and even complete strangers who happen to be in the mosque at the time participate in what's called a funeral prayer; second, the body would be driven to the cemetery to be buried, also by the same people mentioned earlier; third, a three-day funeral service would be held either at the deceased's house or some other deceased-associated place. Now here's the interesting part: if you attend one of the three aforementioned phases, that's more than enough according to the societal rules of courtesy. Even if you only attend for ten minutes on the third day of the funeral service without being involved in any of the previous phases, that would suffice according to the social norms. And so, the more you participate, the more you demonstrate how much the lost person and/or their family members mean to you. You've got that right—I took part in the three phases of the funeral of my friend's father.

It was a Friday, and the funeral prayer was scheduled to be held at noon; and therefore, the Friday sermon (a weekly mandatory ritual in Islam) had to be part of the process.

I stopped going to the mosque more than seven or eight years ago. I can't really remember, but I still go only for funeral prayers. On Friday, I was really astonished that nothing had changed at all. I wish I could say that I felt any "peace," "tranquility," or "reassurance" while I was kneeling and prostrating, but I didn't. I feel these things, however, whenever I listen to Yan Tiersen's La Veillée. Does that make me an infidel? If so, then I guess I am.

Nothing has changed at all; the pious worshipers are still bringing their mischievous kids to the mosque as if it were a playground. Even if you wanted to commune with your creator, the ear-piercing shouts made by the five-year-old toddlers would disrupt any mundane or divine lines of communications.

Nothing has changed at all; the topics discussed by the Imam are still the same boring, non-contemporary nonsense. They're incredibly lacking in terms of political savvy, general knowledge, social edification, and even religious challenges. Islam encourages people to enrich their knowledge, yet mosques seem to ignore this aspect outrageously.

Nothing has changed at all; the Imam still concludes his sermons by praying to God for the annihilation of entire populations of non-Muslim people who have never hurt me, and the soulless worshipers behind the Imam say "Amen!" like automated machines. What—in the name of all Gods—is so righteous about praying for tribulations to strike some random people just because they don't share my religious views?

Nothing has changed at all; I'm still a lone candle whose flame shall never be put out. I'm still spiritually satiated with my own way of communicating with God. I don't need any mediators. Leave me and my faith alone.