Cultural Difference - or just Dyslexia?

Cultural Difference or Dyslexia?
July 28, 2008

Eeiiienaohs chilg ughoe iechikl iyoowwywieo iioeoiuskei ieiiiioouuuwioiunghghhiw

This jarring, howling azan (Muslim call to prayer) awakens me at 4:45am each day. Ian likens the song to that of a slow motion killing spree soundtrack, while I believe he’s been playing far too many M(mature rating) video games, I agree that the music is eerie. Each day this nation of Islam is called to prayer several times a day. While the city is full of women in baju kurng (traditional Muslim robes) and tudung (a head scarf) there rarely seems to be a prostrate soul at the city mosque in KL (Kuala Lumpur) Central Park. Now I state this in no way as a critique on their religious practice, more as a scientific observation.

Speaking of religious practices, Ian and I committed a grievous faux pas shortly after our arrival. We were checking out the Hotel Nikko’s facilities and stumbled upon the exercise/spa floor. Ian told me he was going to check out the sauna. When he returned he commented that the room was weird, and all he saw were lines on the floor and exercise mats in the corner. I read the large video display screen to the right of the door and saw five different times (several in military style) underneath the current date. After several moments of discussion Ian and I decided it must be some sort of yoga room and that the sauna must be accessed through another hallway unseen by Ian. Several days later Ian and I mentioned to Brian that we were going to search for the sauna again. He burst out laughing and told us to reread the sign above the door.

Obviously dyslexia is a reality for both mother and son. Suria is the Muslim word for chapel. Oops.



Sunday morning I was awoken to the juxtaposition of the distant ringing of the St Mary’s Church Bell and the microphone amplified azan (Muslim call to prayer) by the bilal (Muslim singing ministers) at the local Mosque. I had been jarred multiple times a day for the past seven days, by the insistent caterwauling of the bilals, by my calculations that was thirty-five possible God Moments. And yet these intrusions did little to entice me to converse with my old friend God, as I had vowed to do on my second day. Instead I had all but abandoned the normal running dialogue that I had enjoyed in Granville.

That clanging, slightly out of tune, church bell, so humble and meek in the face of such flashy chanting and praising to Mohammed, brought me to my knees with such quiet reverence the likes of which will inspire me forever.

God is at work everywhere and I am always in awe that he allows me to share in his miracles.