Jasmine Falling by Shereen Malherbe

Author:Shereen Malherbe
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: romance, middle east, israel, contemporary, islam, palestine, jerusalem, apartheid, jinn, diverse
Publisher: Shereen Malherbe

Chapter 10

The sound of the athan sung into her ears. She opened her eyes and looked outside the square window, the sun hadn’t yet risen. A gentle tapping sound on the inside door made her sit up. ‘I’m awake,’ she called. Josh was already dressed, his bag slung over his shoulders. ‘Will I see you later then?’ she said.

‘That is the plan.’ He opened the front door and closed it behind him, she listened to his footsteps fading, the gate creaking and the sound of his engine pull off. She threw off the covers, wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and went outside. The pre-dawn air smelt crisp and fresh, as if washed for the new day. She wandered to the gate and looked down the dark street. Men in white robes were walking in the direction of the mosque. Two veiled women jogged together, the white of their trainers flashing from under their abayas as they overtook the slower men kneading their prayers beads to keep count of their praises. ‘Those who find their way to the mosque in the dark, will have their paths lit to heaven,’ her father had once told her. Jasmine wrapped her hair up in her shawl and joined the faithful as they made their way to the congregational dawn prayer. She followed the exercising women in their abayas through the female prayer door. The coolness pressed into Jasmine’s cheeks, the hall was lit with burnt ginger and purple diamond-cut lanterns suspended from the ceiling. Jasmine slipped off her plimsolls and slid them in next to the others in the shoe rack. Her feet sunk into the maroon and navy patterned carpet running up the stairs, twisting onto a landing with a washroom at one end and the prayer hall at the other.

Inside the washroom, she sat down on a marble bench the colour of midnight pine trees. Opposite the bench, brass taps protruded from the wall. A gleaming mirror was above them, decorated in tiny mosaics the colours of the lanterns that hung from the walls. Underneath the taps, between the bench, was a gated drain where Jasmine placed her bare feet. She rolled up her trousers and began to wash before the prayer. She rinsed her hands, her mouth, her nose and her face. She cupped running water, washing up to her elbows on both arms, over her hair, behind her ears and the back of her neck. Finally, she rinsed her feet up to her ankles. She looked at her reflection when she had finished with a slight smile on her face, she hadn’t forgotten. She had done it with her father too many times to count but it had been years since, and yet it was automatic. She turned off the tap and dried herself with paper towels, wrapped her shawl around her hair and walked down the landing towards the female prayer hall. Under her breath she whispered in Arabic, ‘In the name of Allah, oft forgiving, most merciful. I swear that you are the only God and your last prophet is Mohammed.

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