Berkley Center

Before coming to Egypt, I considered myself to be somewhat aware of the religion of Islam. I knew the name of the Prophet Muhammad and the basic succession of history. I studied world history in both high school and at Georgetown, and learned about the Five Pillars. Though raised as a Christian, I attended and thoroughly enjoyed an open prayer service one Friday led by Georgetown's Imam Yahya Hendi.

When I arrived for my semester of study in Cairo, I realized that I was ignorant to the most important part of understanding the faith: Islam is not a part of life; Islam is life. From ritual prayer to daily sayings, faith is everywhere here. The manifestation of religion can even be as small as people having the name of Allah written on their cell phones' home screens and Qur'anic readings as their ring tones. It can be as ubiquitous as a taxi ride (which almost always means listening to a tape of the Qur'an). Possibly the most obvious presence of religion is seen in daily dialogue: offering up a simple hello to a friend or shopkeeper includes wishing peace upon him or her. Referring to the future often requires the use of “InshaAllah,” or “God-willing.”

Within minutes of leaving the airport terminal, I saw people praying (as many do five times a day). Praying is an active part of Islam, and the prescribed motions move a Muslim to his or her knees with his or her head to the ground in submission to Allah. Islam is a word that translates to “peace through submission to God” and life is to be lived out in “submission to God.” (And I thought weekly Sunday attendance at a Lutheran church was a hard schedule to follow.)

My new friend in Cairo, an Egyptian Muslim who has spent his entire life in the United States (and is now studying abroad here for a semester), gets truly excited every time a call to prayer is blasted from the loudspeakers located on many of Cairo's streets. Inspired by his religiosity and deep connection with his faith, I decided to join him in his Ramadan observance by fasting from sun-up to sundown daily. I was faithful the entire month, never eating or drinking even water during daylight hours (a daunting task in the desert).

Through fasting, I got a small taste of what it is like to live life in submission to God. Periodically, such as when I visited the pyramids in the early September heat without water, I became nearly delusional. Part of Ramadan's aim is to show Muslims what it is like to be poor and hungry in a push for greater charity among the “haves”, so as to improve the lot of the “have-nots.” When I was rewarded at the end of each day with a large bottle of water straight from the refrigerator, I found myself in lockstep with my new Egyptian friend in thanking God for the gift of nourishment and refreshment at the end of our fast. Looking back, I actually miss the time of Ramadan, as it became deeply spiritual, even for me as a non-Muslim.

The other day, I reread a column that Father Ryan Maher, a Georgetown College dean, wrote for the Washington Post that recounted his time as the first Jesuit priest ever in Qatar (he was there helping to open the Georgetown School of Foreign Service-Qatar campus). In the column, he notes that the way many Westerners approach religion is the same way opposing football teams' fans approach a rivalry. They agree to disagree and root passionately for their respective teams. It is erroneous to look at faith this way, though, Fr. Maher writes. He instead likens Islam and Christianity in a faith discussion to “two men in love with the same woman, each trying to express, safeguard, and be faithful to his relationship with his beloved.” I have grown to experience the same feeling as Fr. Maher. I have learned that faith in Cairo and across the Muslim world is about more than prayer or attending the mosque on Fridays. Faith is everything.