I cry every time I leave.
It has been like this for years.
And it’s not because I cover my face and someone always tells me “What is this?”
It’s not because no one knows me. They’ve seen me gazillion times.
It’s not because I don’t feel at home, in a mosque.
But no other place on earth fills me with so much love.
No other place on earth fills me with more despair.
I am proud of my community when it gathers.
But I feel lonely, lonelier than the glass windows that surround the entire building, because at least some people peer through them.
I feel like a stranger among friends.
None of them speak my language.
None of them remembers my face.
None of them recognizes me.
If feel like a messenger who lost the letters on the way to their house and can’t deliver news.
If they talked to me, they wouldn’t even get me.
My heart soars when it’s time to pray.
I feel whole.
But when it’s time to leave, someone will inevitable bump into me, cross my path without a smile, glare at me when I didn’t see they weren’t finished.
Sobs gather behind my lids.
I don’t know what to expect. I don’t know what would make them stop.
My heart is always new and ready.
So, each time I enter a mosque, I feel happy.
Each time I leave, I wipe some tears.
It has been like this for years.
And it’s no one’s fault.
It’s just the fault of my heart.