The call for the pray wakes me up every morning at The voice from the Mosque does not annoy me. That’s strange, because I don’t usually want to be disturbed in my sleep.
The chant in Arabic somehow comforts me.
I’m not a religious person -in fact I have a bad habit of disbelieving everything- and I’m sure not to get any mysterious or euphoric sensation listening to the prayers in the dim morning light of my bedroom.
I should be irritated by the shriek and scream in a language I don’t understand, but I’m not. It makes me feel safe to know that somewhere there are people, who are awake at the same time as I am.
I’m not alone.
Maybe there’s someone next door who unrolls his mat and kneels to a prayer. Someone whose mumble will lull me to sleep again.
Or maybe not. My room is in a hotel and probably the sixteen years old English blonde is crying in her sleep, that’s more likely. She’s been drinking beer all day with her mum and when I last saw them before retiring to my room, they hugged each other and the waitresses in the hotel bar. Mum and daughter, both drunk in their miniskirts and tight blouses, printed “don’t touch” on the breast and “cheeky” on the bottoms of their way too shirt skirts.
The thought of them snoring bottoms up doesn’t comfort me as much as the sound from the Mosque. I concentrate on the incomprehensible, monotonous pray and fall asleep.