The old woman, Amina, sat on the worn rug in the corner of the Masjid, her fingers tracing the familiar patterns. Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. This Masjid wasn’t grand; its walls were simple, its carpets faded, but to Amina, it was the heart of her world.
She remembered her childhood, spent playing hopscotch in the courtyard, the echoing sounds of the Adhan calling her to prayer. The Masjid had been a constant, a comforting presence throughout her life. It wasn’t just a place of worship; it was a community center, a school, a refuge.
She recalled the countless Friday sermons that had guided her, the shared meals that had fostered friendships, the quiet moments of prayer that had brought her solace. The Masjid was where she’d celebrated joyous occasions and mourned losses, always finding comfort in the shared faith and collective spirit.
During times of hardship, the Masjid had been her lifeline. Its doors were always open, offering food, shelter, and a listening ear. She’d seen countless individuals find hope and strength within its walls, their burdens lightened by the shared sense of community.
Even now, in her old age, the Masjid remained her sanctuary. The rhythmic chanting of prayers, the gentle murmur of conversations, the warmth of human connection – it all brought a sense of peace and belonging. The Masjid wasn’t just stones and mortar; it was a living, breathing testament to the power of faith, community, and shared humanity. It was, and always would be, her home.