Wet Prayer

Malaysia is very wet. It rains throughout the year, seasons be damned. This equatorial band of moisture makes the country incredibly green. Luscious jungle clad mountains twist down the peninsula, dotted here and there with glittering little pockets of technologically advanced humans. It rains and the sleek black highways turn to shimmering rivers. It rains and the forest takes a deep breath. It rains and streaks down the sides of the giant glass skyscrapers.

And through the heavy air floats the sound of an overdubbed loudspeaker. A man’s voice intoning an ancient chant. The call to prayer.

Malaysia is a predominantly Muslim country. It is a mélange of color and diversity, where Chinese, Indians, ethnic Malays and colonial Europeans have traded, battled and bred for hundreds of years. Hindus, Christians and Buddhists all have their place here - Little India, The Colonial District, Chinatown - but Islam makes up 60% of the country. In Thailand I saw and heard the minority Muslim population in small pockets, (the closer you get to the equator in this part of the world, the stronger that presence is) but until now, I haven’t really felt it. I didn’t realize that I missed that feeling.

Traveling through Israel last fall, where the sandy winds and the desert sun serve as a constant geographical reminder, I was at home in the Arab shouks. The crowds of shrouded women and imperiously mustached men were my avenue into an exotic and ancient culture. It felt right, is all I can say for it. In the northern tendrils of the Arabian desert there should be an Arab presence. It was an incredibly immersive shock to my system, something I badly wanted but didn’t realize I needed.

The call to prayer was a soundtrack to my time in Jerusalem. No matter where you are in the old city, it seems that someone, somewhere is calling for prayer, or praying over a sound system, or blasting a recorded hymn from a portable speaker. The droning Arabic singing became a background presence that I will always associate with the pale buildings made of Jerusalem stone, perfect blue skies and lots of hummus.

Which is why I find it so bizarre to wake up in my hotel room in Kuala Lumpur to the sound of Arabic drifting through the open window. Hearing it again in this jungle country sends me back. It seems so out of place after four months of Buddhist temples.