Beyond the Full Moon - Part 2

Jaleel Muhiyaddeen Qadirie, Imam of Colombo's Devawatagaha Mosque, after the tsunami prayers on 26 January 2005. Photo: © 2005 Jeff Greenwald

Wednesday, January 26, is the one-month anniversary of the tsunami. Dwayne has flown back to San Francisco; I’ve returned to Colombo. At 8:30 in the morning, Dilan turns on the car radio and combs the airwaves. Beginning at 9:05 am, he informs me, services will be held for the souls who perished in the waves. Four events – one for each of the main religions – are scheduled at four locations, across the breadth of this battered island.

In the Nallur temple in Jaffna, far to the north, Hindus are performing pujas for the dead. The Kandy temple is hosting yet another invocation, and the Madu church, in Puttalam, is conducting Catholic rites.

Here in Colombo, the place to be is the Devatagaha Mosque: an elegant white building, flanked by minarets. Sri Lanka’s population is only 10% Muslim, but many of the affected people were Islamic fishermen. One of the first people I meet inside the spare, echoic mosque is Naqeeb Mowiana, a lanky, friendly man in a tight skullcap. “From Galle to Hambantota,” he tells me, “my father’s family lost 37 people.”

I’ve brought no skullcap, but the groundskeeper improvises. A small plastic fruit basket is overturned, and placed on my head. Sporting this ridiculous attire, I am ushered into an office to sit with the visiting dignitaries. “We are praying to The Almighty,” I’m told by the deputy mayor of Colombo, “to let the victims of the tsunami enter Jennathul Firdhouse; the Gardens of Paradise.”

It amazes me that the place isn’t filled with media. In fact, I’m the only foreigner present. Not only that; I’m American, and Jewish. As this information circulates, it becomes clear, to the assembled believers and this infidel alike, that my presence here cannot be accidental.

At 9:05 am, the time of the first wave, fifty men in spotless caftans and skullcaps gather in the mosque’s prayer-room. Led by their Imam – the fiercely dynamic Jaleel Muhiyaddeen Qadirie, considered by his followers a living saint – the chanting begins. Standing amid these men, in a white-tiled room with fans whirling above and pictures of Mecca on the walls, I lose all sense of national and ethnic boundaries. The oration is in Arabic, and the only word I understand is “tsunami.” But the passion in Qadirie’s voice is universal.

The prayers continue until 9:36 am – the moment the great wave impacted the shores of Sri Lanka, sweeping more than 30,000 people to their deaths. Interspersed throughout is the Imam’s sermon: a call for all the residents of the land to join together, and rebuild Sri Lanka.

“Some of those who went to their morning prayers on that day,” the Imam cries, “did not pray in the afternoon. This is the lesson for everyone. The tsunami picked up everything, and everyone; it called each person by name, deciding whether they would live or die. Regardless of who you are, there is no guarantee of a second day, or hour, or even a second breath. Yesterday is gone; tomorrow is doubtful. We have only the present moment to do good works, to love each other, and to praise God.”

There is a prayer that the people of Sri Lanka learn to live together peacefully, and a prayer of thanks for the agencies and charities that have come to the county in its hour of need. Chants of amin, “may it be so,” follow each benediction. Around me, the men place their palms upward in supplication, or over their hearts

When the ceremony concludes, the circle of worshippers begins to rotate, forming a receiving line that snakes past the Imam and other VIPs. Everyone shakes each other’s hand, and murmurs of greeting and blessing ring through the tiled room. All this is being filmed; and I try, discretely, to back away, feeling out of place among this community of worshippers. But I’m taken by the arm, and pulled into the fray by an elderly man who reminds me of my grandfather.

“You must come,” he says, simply. “You, and I; same God. All, same God.”

I enter the circle, and move with the crowd. One by one, in turn, each man takes my hand. Every one of them looks directly into my eyes, with an expression I cannot describe and will never forget. I’m thinking: no soccer ball or Frisbee, no tarpaulin or school book, has meant more to these people than my presence in this room. And nothing I’ve accomplished with Mercy Corps, as part of their relief effort in Sri Lanka, has meant more to me personally.

Later, after a cup of milk tea in the mosque office, the Imam approaches me. “Are your parents alive?” he asks.

“My mother is alive,” I reply. “My father passed away 20 years ago.”

Jaleel Muhiyaddeen Qadirie, tsunami survivor and servant of Allah, reaches into his breast pocket and extracts a crisp 1,000 rupee bill. He places it in my hands, and holds it there.

“When you return home,” the Imam says. “Buy your mother a bowl of fresh fruit.”

As we leave the mosque and reclaim our shoes, I query Dilan. “Do you understand why he did that?”

“Of course,” my guide replies. “He is Muslim. Very generous people. And by the way…”
“Yes?”
“Your own fruit bowl is still on your head.”

I spend the hot afternoon indoors, writing up my notes. By the time I leave my room it’s half past six. I walk slowly along the seaside promenade of Galle Face Road, and buy 20 rupees worth of potato chips from a street vendor. The bag is homemade, folded from a page cut from an old science textbook: an illustration of the lunar module, en route to the Moon.

Sunset comes quickly near the fast-moving equator. The Arabian Sea fills the western horizon, pink-tinged gray from north to south. A few weeks ago, people walked along this beach in silence, staring fearfully at the swell. The healing process is well underway, but one wonders if the lessons have been learned – and not just in South Asia.

“You can read a thousand books,” the monk in Kandy told the assembled crowd, “but if you don’t apply them to your life, you haven’t learned anything. In the same way, if mankind ignores nature, and the language of nature, we will always be caught unawares. The sea warned us, when it pulled away from the shore; many people treated it like a curiosity. Many who were warned thought it was a joke. Those who understood, survived. Those who didn’t, perished.”

I munch a few chips and look west, toward the tankers on the horizon. Below, along the breakwater, the surf slaps the shore with a steady, gentle rhythm. Couples and children frolic on the sand, gleefully dodging the waves.

© 2005 by Jeff Greenwald