Allah-u Akbar... Allah-u Akbar...
As I slowly sipped the fruit-flavored tea prepared by Mohammad in an art space in al-Luweibdeh, Amman, our conversation was interrupted by the sound of the athan—the call to prayer—reverberating across the valley from the mosque on the opposite hill; its solemn refrain pressed against my body and all my senses; it was time for sunset prayer. I shook; initially taken aback by the violence of the sound, the manner it demanded attention from me, although I was not willing to yield just yet. But, as always, I succumbed to the beautiful sounds echoing through the concrete hills that surrounded me, my heartbeat hastened and my skin was tickled with fear and intense joy. Then I began to sing to the words, muttering them in perfect unison with the man behind the microphone on the other side of the valley, as if I have been training my entire life for this duet. But, as always, I stopped myself, reiterating in my head the words I hated the most but that I have been told time and time again “don’t sing with the athan, a woman’s voice is ‘awra, shameful (equated with revealing one’s genitals).” I then remember that my piety can be sexual and I that I need to smother it with silence, with invisibility. Yet, his voice sustains a reverberating beauty, a solemn call that subtly, but playfully, vibrates me orgasmically, telling me to rejoice, to believe; to climax on the glory of God, on religion, on tradition, on this man’s beautiful submissive voice; I yield. He delivers.