I can’t tell you the number of times my parents have told me to sit quietly and pray.

As devout Hindus, meditation is an everyday ritual. And yet, I’ve never seemed to last more than twenty-three seconds before getting distracted by some sound or invisible ant tickling a part of my body.

It’s because of my extreme inability to stay focused that I found myself captivated by the mosque we were able to visit in Tamale. Construction workers filled the building and the infrastructure was far from stable, and yet scattered on their mats were Muslim men deep in prayer.

I’m sure that most of our group felt very privileged to be allowed in the mosque. Many of us were wearing shorts, flip flops, and none of the women had their hair covered. We were breaking nearly every rule about entering a mosque. On top of it all, I was a Hindu attempting to enter a Muslim place of prayer. I was anxious and incredibly humbled as we were ushered in.

The mosque was the very old, rebuilt four times based on community donations. With each reconstruction, another floor or extension appeared and added to the grandeur of the mosque. Not only were we allowed in, but we were also led to the top.