The Silent Room

It was 4.30pm, but the sun was already below the horizon as I overlooked the beautiful gardens of Montaza Palace from a nearby mosque. I was greeted by a big Egyptian man, and a familiar Malaysian friend who translated for me.

“So you’re all Malaysians, huh? And you’re all Muslims?” asked the middle-aged driver who took us touring around Alexandria.

“Yeah.” I replied, putting on my socks as I sat on the mosque steps.

“What are you, Shi’a, Sunnah?” he asked further.

“I’m not sure. I don’t really care about that, actually. I just worship God.”

The cold air quickly made me shove my other foot into the thick fabrics of my sneakers.

The driver looked up to the sky, and rubbed his chin. “I said the same thing to some friends a few months back when we were having coffee. Two hours after that a mob chased me down and beat me up.”

“Wow, that sucks.”

“I don’t get it. We’re all Muslims. We all learn from the same Quran – hopefully – and we bow and kneel and prostrate to the same point on Earth. We are the same. Why should there be any reason for us differentiate and discriminate ourselves?”

“Very true.”

“Christians make fun of us, draw comics about our prophet, because they don’t know us. It’s just humor for them, but we go out and declare war. Are we really that stiff?”

I just had to keep quiet at that, and just let out a thin smile.

“I don’t get us Muslims sometimes. I wish I can afford to visit Malaysia someday. It sounds like a lovely place for Muslims.” he said as he sat down and reached for his shoes.

I snorted at that remark. “It is, actually. It’s one of the nicest places for a Muslim tourist to go on holiday.”

He just nodded. “God bless Malaysia.”