The Blue Mosque

At 121 meters in length, and with the dominant lapis lazuli (blue) tiled walls and minarets, the Blue Mosque in Herat is quite a spectacular landmark.

The grounds on which the Mosque stands are quite extensive and are composed of a number of individual grassed and low walled areas. Central to this area is a minaret that stands atop a mass tomb, a memorial to the casualties of one of the many wars that Herat has experienced.

But what stood out to me was not the cannon that stood beside the memorial, or the massive edifice of the mosque in the foreground, but the many people that were gathered on the grassed areas. Some were asleep, a few groups sat in circles studying, families were having a picnic, children ran and played, men sat quietly, their mouths silently reciting the 99 attributes of God with the assistance of their prayer beads (called subha - meaning "to exhalt"). This was a community area, a safe place, and a place where anyone was welcome.

People come and go all day, the doors to the mosque remain open until the early hours of the morning. Students sit in the numerous alcoves within the quietness of the mosque courtyard, their text books spread before them. Father's were explaining the architecture, and reading the words of the Qur'an that are written in tiles on all the surfaces of the buildings.

What impressed me was that in the middle of this chaotic, busy, noisy town is a refreshing oasis - a place of prayer, a place of learning and sharing, a place of resting, acceptance and safety, a place for anyone, at any time.

We all need these kind of places and these moments of grace: for a few minutes today I was glad to be able to escape the chaos of Afghanistan and sit in silence and solitude, bathed in a strange blue light reflecting off the tiled walls - and imagine God.

Entertain the Interruption

The Mobile Church was on again and about 20 of us sat together on large colorful cushions, (toshak) that lined the room. The young woman that led us introduced us to a short film, made in Australia called, The Lost Thing (based on a book by Shaun Tan).

It's a 15 minute animation about a boy who discovers a bizarre-looking creature while out collecting bottle-tops at a beach. Having guessed that it is lost, he tries to find out who owns it or where it belongs, but the problem is met with indifference by everyone else, who barely notice it’s presence. Each is unhelpful in their own way; strangers, friends, parents are all unwilling to entertain this uninvited interruption to day-to-day life. In spite of his better judgement, the boy feels sorry for this hapless creature, and attempts to find out where it belongs.

There are so many lessons that could be drawn from the film, but the one that stood out to me was the moment when the boy decided to be in relationship with the creature and the hope that decision birthed in them both.

I have been in a number of places and circumstances where hope has been in short supply, Afghanistan is the latest of them. And in all these places people (including me) have designed wonderful projects to mitigate disaster, to build capacity, to rehabilitate water supplies, to build latrines, to teach health practices, to ensure food security and revitalise economies. And all these things are wonderful.

But, the moment that changes a person: that makes us decide to fight, to build, to learn, to change, is that moment when another person touches us, the moment when another person shows us we are not alone, the moment when when we decide that it is worth hoping - that it is worth forming a relationship.

The moment that people decide that the interruptions to the day-to-day are probably God's moments of hope and grace - foundation stones of relationship - that's the moment that makes the theoretical development model transformational.