“You should’ve stayed for the Ehya,” Farideh said as we walked out for recess. “It was fun.”
Every year our school hosted its annual iftar dinner on the eve of a Qadr night and followed it by holding a vigil, Ehya, to celebrate the holiest nights in the Islamic calendar. Many of our eighth-grade class had attended the dinner, but only a few, including Farideh, had stayed to pray until dawn.
“What was fun about staying up all night?” I asked.
“It’s hard to explain,” she said smugly. “The Great Jawshan dua is simply beautiful.”
“Beautiful how?”
“It’s a chanting of hundreds of different names of God. Very spiritual.”
I looked at her skeptically, but jealousy quickly took over.
That night, I asked my mom to take me to Ehya prayers the next night. She reluctantly closed the book she was reading about the French revolution and the rule of Napoleon. “Why would you want to do that?” she asked.
“The Quran was revealed to the Prophet on the Qadr nights, so they are the holiest of all nights. Farideh says it’s a very—” I stopped myself from saying fun. “Spiritual experience.”
“But you do realize it goes until dawn? You can barely stay awake past 10pm.”
“I promise to sit through the entire thing.”
My mom hesitated. I knew she wouldn’t deny her first born anything so I continued, stretching the truth, “Everyone in my grade has attended one except me.”
She agreed to take me to our neighborhood mosque, Masjid al-Zahra, on West Saheli Street. We arrived at the mosque around 9pm and entered through the archway adorned by two small minarets. The sound of the dua prayers over the loudspeaker bounced off the walls of the courtyard. The only other time I remembered going to a mosque was the year before, for the memorial service of a classmate who died of cancer.
At the entrance to the women’s section, my mom dug through her tote sack and handed me a plastic bag. “For your shoes,” she said. “You don’t want to go home barefoot.” I balanced on the edge of the limestone threshold to take off my shoes one at a time and put them inside the bag. She pulled out two floral-print chadors and put the shoes in the tote sack.
“Should I take off my sweatshirt?” I asked. Shiraz’s winters are mild, so a light sweatshirt was all I was wearing over my manteau.
“That would be a good idea. It’ll be hot inside,” she replied.
We draped ourselves in the chadors before entering the hall which smelled of rosewater, gas heaters, and body odor. A preacher from the men’s section was reciting the Arabic dua prayers that were projected over the loudspeaker. The floor was covered with red Kashan carpets similar to the ones my mom had inherited from my late grandmother. We scanned the crowded room for an empty space next to a wall or column.
My mom finally spotted a void between two women in black chadors. “There,” she said. Iranians’ already small personal spaces were non-existent in single-gender places, so I easily wedged myself between the two women and leaned against the wall. My mom handed me a dua prayer book and sat nearby.
One of the women helped me find the right page.
“Have we missed the Great Jawshan dua?” I asked.
The woman’s tired eyes smiled. “That one is one of the last ones, my dear. It’s the longest prayer recitation and the highlight of the night.”
I followed along, my mind drifting every few minutes. I started to feel drowsy from the post-iftar food coma, the still air in the room, and the melancholic rhythm of the preacher’s recitation. I tried reading the Farsi subtitles to stay focused, but my eyes were tearing yawn after yawn. As if on a red-eye flight, I jerked my head back up each time I dozed off. Eventually I drifted off, my head resting snugly against the shoulder of the woman who had called me “my dear,” oblivious to her polite nudges indicating that I had finally intruded her personal space.
Next thing I knew, my mom was shaking me gently. “Maryam, wake up,” she whispered.
“Just a minute,” I said.
“Get up!” she snapped.
I opened my eyes and blinked at the warm light from the mosque’s many chandeliers. I looked up to my mom standing over me. “Get up,” she repeated, as she firmly held my arm and helped me up. I followed her to the door, where she took my chador and gave me my sweater and shoes. The winter chill made me alert.
“We’re going home, Sleeping Beauty,” she said.
“But I’m up, mom,” I pleaded.
“Ehya night, Ehya night,” she continued. “I gave up my snug bed for you, and you didn’t even make it to midnight. We’re going home.”
We put on our shoes in silence and left the mosque. I was spooked by our shadows growing and shrinking on the sidewalk under the faint streetlights, and walked fast to keep up with my mom. More shadows danced on the sidewalk every time a car sped by. I was relieved when my mom unlocked the door to our walk-up apartment.
First period was always cancelled the day after Ehya, so vigil-holders could sleep in. It was even considered an excused absence if anyone wanted to skip school. Farideh and I were sitting on a bench in the schoolyard, waiting for the second period, as I recounted the night before.
“There was nothing fun about it,” I said.
“Your neighborhood mosque?” she said with a grin. “Of course there’s nothing fun about that. I said the school Ehya was fun. I cracked jokes with Taraneh’s sister all night.”
“What kind of worship is that?” I snapped.
“The religion teacher says it’s the intent that counts. Even if you do not recite the prayers, you still receive the blessings, just for staying up.”
“Maybe next year,” I mumbled, yawning.
Farideh looked away. “My parents probably won’t let me go next year. My mom lost sleep from worry that night.” Farideh’s mom was a typical overprotective Iranian parent.
To the sound of the school bell, we got up from the bench. “I’m sure you can convince her.” I reassured her, as we walked into the building for religion class.
“On Judgement Day,” the religion teacher started, “a person’s good deeds are placed on one plate of a scale, and the evil deeds on the other. Paradise belongs to those whose good deeds outweigh their evil ones. Until Judgement Day, the deceased can continue to accumulate the blessings of good deeds. Can anyone give me an example?”
A few girls raised their hands.
“Installing a public water fountain,” said someone from the third row.
The heat from the wall-mounted gas heater was making me drowsy. I swallowed a yawn.
“Yes,” the teacher said. “Every time that fountain quenches someone’s thirst, it counts as a good deed, even after the founder has passed. It’s the same with funding the construction of public service buildings such as mosques and schools. Any others?”
“Praying or fasting on behalf of the deceased, or paying someone to do so,” said someone in the back.
The teacher nodded. “Also, if you create the opportunity for people to perform good deeds after you die, you will receive the blessing in the afterlife.”
I don’t know how long I had dozed off before I heard the teacher calling my last name.
“Ghatee,” she said, firmly.
I sat straight and I looked up at the teacher hovering over me. She was young—in her twenties—and I could clearly see her thick eyebrows and facial hair, the sign of maidenhood for a woman from a traditional background, which made her look like a high school student herself. Girls were not allowed to get a face threading until graduation from high school. When one of the eleventh graders threaded her upper lip for her sister’s wedding the year before, the vice principal didn’t let her back in school until it had grown back.
“Sorry, ma’am,” I said, meekly.
“Go splash your face with cold water,” she said.
I nodded, relieved, as I walked out the classroom. Everyone was more easy-going during Ramadan.
I heard the teacher’s voice addressing the class again. “The same goes with sins. If one does something that continues to hurt people or spread evil, it will count toward their damnation, even after they’ve passed.”
The following year, I came up with convincing reasons to attend the school Ehya. When my mom tried to talk me out of it, I was ready.
“But you cannot say, ‘No,’” I said. “First of all, I will not disrupt your sleep this way. Also, holding a vigil on one Qadr night is the equivalent of one thousand months of prayer, and—”
She cut me off with a sigh. “Okay. But if you call me in the middle of the night, I will send you to the guillotines, Antoinette,” she warned. “I don’t care if you end up napping in the chemistry lab. We will pick you up after the dawn prayers.”
The next day I learned that Farideh’s plea with her mother was not successful.
“But it won’t be fun without you,” I said.
“It will be okay,” she said, trying to sound cheerful. “There will be plenty of others. You will have a good time. Don’t forget to tell me all the details.”
After school, I ended up hanging out with Aida and a few other friends in the schoolyard. We shared stories and jokes as we waited for the sunset.
One of the wealthier families was sponsoring the iftar, and other families brought treats and dishes for the feast. My mom stopped by to drop off half a dozen boxes of zoolbia, a saffron and rosewater fried dough dipped in syrup, a delicacy reserved for the fasting month.
As the sunset call-to-prayer echoed through the courtyard, Aida and I walked to the ablution room on the lower level. After the rinsing ritual, we draped ourselves in floral print chadors and went to the prayer hall. The religion teacher was now married and we often giggled about her new looks behind her back. She led the sunset and evening prayers, while the mouthwatering aroma of kebabs and food made my fasting stomach grumble.
Once the prayers were over, we left our chadors and joined others on the first floor. Carpets were spread throughout the corridors with plastic tablecloths lining the middle. We helped the principal and vice principals set the food. There was aash-e reshteh soup, green salad, fresh herbs with feta cheese and bread, stuffed grape leaves, buttered saffron rice, chicken and lamb kebabs, pickles, and yogurt. When all was set, we took off our shoes and sat cross-legged on the carpets. The vice principal clapped for silence.
“I wanted to thank you all for being here and thank the families who sponsored this iftar. May your fasts and prayers be accepted. Enjoy the food, ladies,” she said with a smile.
Fasting or not, we devoured the food.
“My stomach is so full, I feel like I’m going to burst,” Aida said. “Everything is delicious.”
“Me too. Can I go to bed now?” I replied with a grin.
We lounged on the carpets for a while, chatting with the other girls. Then we helped clean up and went back to the prayer hall around 9pm for the dua prayers. I quickly claimed a spot in the corner of the room. We opened the prayer books and silently read along. By the time we reached the Great Jawshan dua, I was yawning my eyes out. I leaned my head against the wall and closed my eyes.
Aida shook me awake. I squinted at the fluorescent lights of the room.
“We can go out for some fresh air,” she said.
“Keep my spot,” I asked the tenth grader next to me. “I might need to come back and get more sleep.” I giggled drowsily. The girl just rolled her eyes.
With the landscaping lights on, the schoolyard looked quite magical. There were a few other girls outside, but it was very quiet.
“Maryam, I’m almost done reading this book called Désirée,” Aida started. She had an eclectic taste when it came to reading. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“Is it a new release?” I asked.
“No, it was written in the 1950s. It takes place in France during the time of Napoleon Bonaparte.” Aida said. “Désirée got engaged to Napoleon at the same time her sister got engaged to his brother. But then—”
“Wait,” I interrupted. “Is it a history book?”
“Historic fiction,” she replied.
It was a little chilly, so we walked back into the building. Aida and I paced the school corridors as she recounted all the details of the story, which I followed with great interest.
“I can’t believe she became queen of Sweden,” I said. “The woman had two suitors, the jerk became emperor of France and the gentleman king of Sweden. Do you think she was beautiful?”
“She was pleasant and generous,” Aida said. “What’s not to love about her?”
“But you said it’s fiction,” I countered.
“True,” Aida replied. “Maybe she was beautiful. You can borrow the book as soon as I finish it.”
A bleary-eyed classmate emerged from the prayer hall. “The prayers are done,” she said with a yawn. “The vice principal says we have about an hour to nap in the prayer room. She will wake us up to have a bite before the dawn prayers.”
“I’m stuffed,” I said. “I don’t think I can eat anything for the next two days.”
My mom waved at me from a cab outside the schoolyard.
“Did you make it through?” she asked, as I climbed into the back of the car.
“I did,” I said. “Aida kept me up by telling me the story of a French woman named Désirée Clary. She was the queen of Sweden.”
My mom grinned. “Well then, may Ms. Désirée’s prayers be accepted. Your Ehya blessings were delivered to her soul last night.”
I giggled, then leaned against her, still unwilling to accept the almost adult size of my body. She put an arm around my shoulder. As the cab sped through the empty streets of Shiraz, I stared out the window until I fell asleep snug against my mom.
The book spread like wildfire among my cohort that year. As we relived the life of Paris’s high society, we despised Napoleon, fell in love with Jean Baptist Bernadotte, and smiled with satisfaction when the French emperor divorced Josephine.
For the life of me, I still cannot recite two words from the Great Jawshan dua prayer.
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Logo by Mina M. Jafari
Additional artwork by Abdel Morched.
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We Are More is an inclusive space for SWANA (Southwest Asian and North African) and SWANA diaspora writers to tell our stories, our way. Curated by Michelle Zamanian, this new column seeks to disrupt the media’s negative and stereotypical narratives by creating a consistent platform to be heard, outside of and beyond the waxing and waning interest of the news cycle. We’ll publish creative nonfiction, graphic essays, fiction, poetry, and interviews by SWANA writers on a wide variety of subject matter.
