NO PROPHET

صلاة SALAT

The mat separated his face from the ground. Still, the cold seeped through and prevented Ezan from sleeping. Nothing seemed harder than remaining awake during the morning prayer.

Salat.

One of the five arkān al-Islām [pilars of Islam].

Why?

The boy needed help understanding the meaning of the prayers or seeing their use. All Ezan knew was someone decided in his stead. All he did was tag along.

What Ezan wanted was irrelevant. He was stamped by religion. Even his masculinity referenced him with the believers.

Did he believe?

For Ezan, the real question was, why should he?

Cartoons and comic books were all eight-year-old Ezan cared about.

Nothing in his life proved the existence of a greater power that watched over his family and him. In terms of power, San Goku in Dragon Ball showed more strength.

Allah didn't do much for them. Those who prayed like his family experienced the same predicament. All lived in towers, perhaps in different cities, but still, in these ten-plus-floor buildings where the elevator was always out of order, the stairs smelt urine, and one's sneakers cracked on broken drug needles, people thanked Allah.

Two Rakaat [units] sunnah later, Ezan was free. His mother had already left for work, and his father prepared to go. The clock barely struck 6 AM. At least Fajr was later in winter. Waking around 4 AM was the worst punishment ever. Ezan fell on the couch only to be pushed off by Youssef.

The younger brother understood it wasn't his place. The boy returned to their room and climbed on the double-decker bed. He still had an hour left before preparing to go to school.

Ezan's memories were vivid. He didn't need to add them up to remember why he desired to be someone and somewhere else as a child.

He wished to be like the careless white kids around him. They had the good life. They could celebrate Christmas and have gifts. Their beliefs only seemed to have positive aspects. They could eat what they wished without praying and fasting for forgiveness. They didn't fear any divine repercussions.

What was worse and where Ezan saw the total injustice was when he realized his caucasian friends did many things considered sins and got away with it.

If any cheating occurred in class, the teacher always assumed and called out any other kid.

The same thing happened at the bakery when Louis stole candy. Mr. Diderot automatically grabbed Alpha by the collar, and when Mr. Diderot found the sweets in Louis' pocket, Alpha got accused of pushing and influencing Louis to do so.

In eight-year-old Ezans' eyes, it was better to be white and named Christophe, Clovis, and Bertrand than Malik, Abdul, and Youssef.

Yes, his caucasian friends had the right not to believe. No one ever tagged a white person anything, no matter where they came from. The time when being Portuguese or Italian was shameful in France was far behind. African and Magrebain immigrants took the top spot as the rejectable.

No, Ezan didn't see the necessity of praying to the invisible and unpalpable.

"Why do we pray?"

"To give thanks," his father replied. His father wasn't a talker, but he could go on for hours about Islam. "Our beloved Prophet, peace be upon him said; between a man and polytheism and disbelief, there stands his neglect of the prayer. We show our submission to Allah by worship, by Salah."

His father spoke, but Ezan's ears were deaf to the explanation. No, it was better to be someone else, someone respected and accepted. Thus, he wore a mask, one of the obedient sons and the other that allowed him to be another.

The boy found it more rewarding to be French and integrated into society. Ezan was French, born and raised. All he saw was his Muslim friends and family were bound by invisible chains that prevented them from seeing the reality of their predicament.

The boy refused to be sheep, following for the sake of following without seeing or reaping the benefits.

Praying didn't stop people from calling them "sale Arabes." Ignorant people didn't even care to distinguish between a Muslim and a person of Magrebian origins.

Ezan put his nationality first. His color, religious precepts, and Allah came after the rest.

The boy chose. He was just a French man, nothing more, nothing less.

Hi,

I know this story has been pending. Hopefully, I will update more often.

I hope this prologue was okay; please remember that this is from Ezan's standpoint.

Once more, I invite any Muslim who wishes to clarify anything to help me rectify any misinterpretations.

Thank you so much for reading.

Take care