Today Bassam and I were joined by our good friend Omar Mullick as we went into the south Bronx to check out the Mount Hope Masjid. This is a congregation of primarily West Africans. One of the people that talked to us said most of the people are from s Togo and Ghana. He said the two countries’ cultures are similar, comparing them to the similarities between New York and New Jersey.

What makes this place beautiful is the community involvement. In many mosques, generally it is a small handful of tireless volunteers that provide food for everyone. But in this case, it seemed like every single person contributed. As soon as you walk into the mosque, you see a sign up sheet where everyone volunteers to provide food to break the fast.

We sat down on a floor covered in tarp in the dining room and watched as floods of people came bringing in food. Each of them provided an item or two to help create a full fledged hearty meal to break our fast. The food in front of us was a plate of dates, watermelon and some corn bread.

There was a guy at the table serving this soup out of a huge Igloo cooler. It was a sweetened maize soup. Think of hot apple sauce with small pieces of cornbread in it. Fantastic would only be describing the soup’s taste lightly.

There were a lot of people there that were amazingly friendly. Most of the foods there such as the soup and other dishes were foreign to us, but given how friendly the atmosphere was, you couldn’t help but just jump in headfirst and really enjoy yourself.

We then went downstairs to pray. The imam of the mosque is from Guyana.

After prayer, we ended up going to this vegetarian Indian restaurant on Curry Hill in Manhattan called Tiffin Wallah. The food was phenomenal. The three of us each ordered Mysore Masala dosas. The best way I can describe it is a enormous crepe and inside are spiced potatoes and peas. You then dip it into those lentil soups on the right.

The food was great no doubt. But after we ate, I kind of really wished we ate dinner at the mosque. As we were leaving the mosque, they were serving large plates of rice and catfish. It made me think long and hard about my dad. My father is on temporary business overseas and is all alone for the time being until his job finishes. So he eagerly asks me to always send him any kind of project I’m working on just so he can pretend he’s there with me witnessing it happen.

I kind of wish I had catfish tonight because I know how much he likes it.

Note: Many comments from this posting have disappeared. We encourage those whose comments have disappeared to re-post their thoughts. Sorry for the inconvenience, Aman and I are looking into this issue.

How do you get to Sesame Street? Follow a muppet.

Jamaica Muslim Center? Follow the topis (hats) and hijabs on Hillside Ave.

O, how Jamaica has changed! Back when we lived in Astoria, I remember coming here with my father when I was ten. He forsook my mother on ever coming to this area alone. Jamaica has developed immensely and looks nothing like how I remembered it from twelve years ago — a prettier Jackson Heights if you will.

This is the Jamaica Muslim Center, Inc. A predominantly Bangladeshi community with the usual IndoPak mix.

Most of the residence in the surrounding apartments are Muslim. I would be afraid to live this close because I’d have to come up with some really creative excuses on why I wasn’t at the masjid for fajr. 



In the hallway before the musala, all the plates for iftaar were ready.  I was taking pictures of them with my google phone when a man standing by me asked if I was from the media. I smiled and said I wasn’t. All the photos Aman and I take are from our cell phones. The day the press starts taking photos with smart phone cams will be a very sad day.

When the time came to break our fast, the imam turned to the congregation and had us repeat after him.

Allah humma

O God,

inni Laka sumtu

…I fasted for you ..

Wa bika amantu

…and I believe in you..

Wa alayka tawakkalto

..and I put my trust in You..

Wa ‘ala rizqika aftartu

..and I break my fast with Your sustenance.

We then proceeded to eat our dates and drink NYC’s default choice for water, Poland Spring.



Right after the Maghrib prayer, everyone stayed in place and performed their sunnah prayers. I don’t think I saw a single person leave the musala until they performed the the supererogatory prayer.

Just as we were done praying, the volunteers quickly began placing blue mats all around the musala.

Today’s menu: Pakora, Rice, Chicken Seekh, Fried Chicken, and, um, Watermelon. Nice bite marks on the pakora, ya?



A man sitting next to me informed us that the majority of the congregants were gathered in the basement. He also told me the women pray upstairs and that is also where they are served.

Everything about the masjid reminded me of Madrasah Islamia in Houston. From the local residence walking together to the mosque to the after school Islamic program, the place was oozing with the scent of Hafiz Iqbal’s joint. What struck me the most was the hifz program the center has. I didn’t know they had such a program until I checked the center’s website. On the site, they have a list of 30 or so hufaadh who have graduated from their Jamia Qurania Academy.

Centuries ago before printing books, many Muslims relied on the hufaadh, individuals who have memorized the Quran, to teach their communties the holy book. Now that Qurans are readily available on paperbacks and iphones, many say there is no need for these rigorous memorization programs. Maybe it’s the “immigrant” in me, but I think the memorization of the Quran is an important tradition we must keep alive. Not just because it is a part of the Prophetic tradition, but there is also an important component of reciting aloud that is being lost. And what better way to recite aloud than from our hearts?

Updated: Maheen informed me the imam of the mosque is not Indonesian. It is the Director of the JMC that is.

Our first trip on our journey to Staten Island, way overdue. No Bassam today, but instead I took my little brother Zeshawn and my cousin Salman to the Noor Al-Islam Center on Richmond Terrace. This is a World War II bomb factory they converted into a mosque. But before I get to that, we first took a chillaxing 25-minute ferry ride to Staten Island. Bye bye Manhattan and Statue of Liberty:

To truly appreciate how beautiful this mosque is, you have to learn its history. The mosque is built on a shipyard that was the location for the Bethlehem Steel Corporation during World War II. The corporation used to manufacture bombs for the military. After the war, a man named Muhammad Adam, who is still on the mosque’s board today, worked his way up the ranks at the shipyard until he finally took ownership of it. In the 1990s, he turned the factory portion of the shipyard into this beautiful mosque.

During World War II, this parking lot used to be an outdoor motorized track that used to transport the manufactured bombs in carts to the harbor, where men at the dock would load the bombs onto military supply ships.

It took Muhammad Adam and the mosque board about 10 years to gain full control of the five-floor building. In the late 1990s, they had only one small portion of the first floor. Then they got enough money to take control of the second floor to make an expanded prayer room. Then they took control of the third floor to make a women’s prayer area. Then they took control of the fourth floor to make a Sunday school for children. Then they took control of the fifth floor to make an apartment for the Imam.

This prayer room was completed about two years ago. The pillars from the original factory are still intact, but the entire room has been restored with beautiful marble tiling. We got to the mosque super early, so I sat back against the wall to take in the room’s beauty:

Apparently some of the people at the mosque are die-hard Jets fans, judging by this mat outside the prayer room. The Imam and I both agree the Jets made a mistake getting rid of Chad Pennington.

Since we got to the mosque about 30-40 minutes before prayer, we were asked by a group of people to join them in their religious discussion. They were a group of people from Brooklyn that were spending the weekend at the mosque. One of the things I love about going to mosques is when a random strangers  greets you with a smile and makes you feel as if you’ve been friends for life.

It was time to break my fast and I had to give a shout out to my elementary school days. I broke it with a dixie cup cone filled with milk and a date.

Time for prayer.

After prayer, I was greeted by Hesham El-Meligy. A community activist who  read our 30 mosques site and invited us to Staten Island. He is an amazing individual, and is one of the Muslim leaders in NYC pushing the city to make Eid a recognized holiday in the public schools. NPR recently did a story on him.

He gave me a tour of the mosque and explained its beautiful history. The congregation is predominantly Egyptian, but a good mix of Desis and African Americans too. For dinner we had fantastic Egyptian food: Rice, chicken, meatballs, mixed veggies and salad

For dessert we had baklava (left) and kunafa (right), one of my fave Arabic treats. If you haven’t had kunafa, its basically sweetened shredded wheat. Yes it sounds like something an 89 year old grandma would eat, but — holy moly — it’s amazing. It made me miss all my awesome Arab friends from college that made it for me all the time.

As we were getting ready to leave, I had to take one last shot of the building because I was still taken back by how beautiful it was.

I still can’t believe 15 days in this journey have gone by already. I have seen so many beautiful things so far, and we’re only halfway done. If I was able to see this today, I can only imagine the people I’ll meet and sights I’ll see in the days to come.

Alhamdulillah, I have lived an incredibly blessed life in the very few years I’ve been on this earth. This project without a doubt will be added to the long list of stories I’ll get to bore my grandkids about one day. I cann’t wait.

Today, Aman and I went to the Riverdale Islamic Center in The Bronx. It’s interesting how no other borough in New York has a definitive THE in front of it. I have yet to hear anyone say the Queens or the Brooklyn.

(Update: Turns out the Bronx comes from the landowner who acquired the borough back in 1639, Jonas Broncks. - Here’s a snippet from an article:

“A river ran through Jonas Bronck’s farm, which became known as THE Bronck’s River. Then the area around the river became known as THE Bronck’s; eventually the spelling of the name was changed to THE Bronx because of euphony and not because there is more than one Bronx. In fact, it is the only New York State borough using an article in its name.”

Props to the commenter who pointed this out)

The mosque is discreetly located in the back of an apartment complex. It’s very easy to miss if you’re not looking carefully.

Before reaching the back of the complex, we had to pass through a smelly corridor filled with garbage.

At the entrance of the mosque sat Aqib. A Pakistani kid who starts high school in a week. He directed me into the mosque.

Inside the center, I was greeted by a small group of Desi uncles who were preparing plates for iftaar. They smiled and told me to sit before we break our fast. At that moment I thought the masjid was ran by South Asians, but when I looked to my left I saw a different picture. There were a couple of Latino and African American brothers helping out in the preparations. The small congregation began cracking on a brother who ate a date before the adhaan was called. Everyone took turns coming up with a joke. The brother who ate the date was a new convert and laughed as he turned red in embarrassment. The Desi uncles jokes were a little off color, but everyone knew they meant well. It was funny to see them transitioning from Punjabi to English to Arabic all as they put pakoras and dates in plates.

Before the designated iftaar time, a vibrant man got up and reminded us that the small window before Maghrib is a very blessed time to supplicate. After he called the adhaan, I found out  this man, Sheikh Sulayman, was the Imam of the mosque and instrumental in bringing this congregation together.

We were given dates, pakoras, chickpeas and crispy rice for break fast. The only thing missing was roohafza.

After Maghrib, I spoke with the Imam about the dynamics of the mosque. He said it was difficult to get the congregation to come together in the beginning, but since they were in such a small space there really was no choice.  “The space is a blessing,” he said.

For dinner, the masjid provided a light biryani with salad.

As we left the masjid, Shiekh Sulayman showed us around the masjid property. Turns out the landlord of the apartment complex is Muslim and has designated the majority of the first floor for the mosque.  That explains how they get away with the blaring speakers in a residential building. The imam briefly spoke about the expansion plans to accommodate the growing congregation. I wondered what would happen once the masjid expanded. Would the community drift apart if they have the convenience of sitting in their own ethnic corners? Or would they still come together and crack off-color jokes in the comfort of a larger space? Let’s pray for the latter.

This entry was written by Fatima Ashraf. A community activist who wants to “make it plain,” as brother Malcolm taught us.

Masjid Dawood, better known as the Yemeni Mosque on State St, is a sad story in my opinion.  But let me start with the good, since it is Ramadan.  The sister’s section is on the second floor.  The carpet in this masjid always reminded me of the Dome of the Rock; it’s a deep, deep red and pretty clean.  The taraweah is beautiful; the Sheikh’s recitation, with eyes closed, can transport you to the Holy Land.  It’s 8 rakats with the traditional break in the middle.  The sounds of the recitation float out of the windows and over the trees throughout historic Brooklyn Heights. 

Now, the sadness.  Well, let’s call it awareness.  Masjid Dawood is one of the FIRST mosques in NYC and therefore one of the first in the entire country.  It was established by the Blackamerican Muslim community.  It was a stronghold for Muslims.  It was more than just a house of worship, it was a place where families could come to learn about Islam together, to study the deen, to raise their kids around one another, and to plan for the future of Islam in America.  Today, this masjid is 100% immigrant; the founding fathers of this precious place are no where to be found.  The population is homogeneous.  Arabs. Yemenis (at least in the sister’s section). I am an immigrant Muslim, yet I still felt out of place.  Furthermore, it’s become a transient place; there is no more socializing, no more community building. People come, pray, go. 

There are many reasons for this.  The gentrification of this neighborhood in the 60s and 70s played a part.  The immigrant invasion played a part.  But the past it the past; what we must think about is the future.  Many of the Brooklyn masaajid, established by the African American community, no longer serve the community.  Where is the Blackamerican Muslim community going?  This is a very important question to get answered, but let’s first start by asking it.