Saïda, former known as Sidon, looks back on a history stretching back more than six thousand years. Together with Tyre, forty kilometres further south, it was one of the main Phoenician ports for trade with Egypt, Mesopotamia and Cyprus. It is mentioned several times in the Old Testament. In the New Testament, it was the first stop on Paul’s final journey as a prisoner on his way to Rome for his trial (Acts 27:1–4; see also Acts 21:1–7 for Tyre). These two brief references bear witness to the early spread of Christianity by sea via the Phoenician ports, as far as Antioch in the north, which would very quickly become the missionary center of the early Church (cf. Acts 11:25–27).

As part of a course on Islam, we went to meet a well-known and respected Sunni imam in Saïda and attend Friday prayers. On the way, we stopped at a tiny chapel situated on the spot where Paul is said to have landed in Sidon. Although closed on Fridays, the Orthodox Church of St Nicholas, located just a few steps away, was immediately opened and lit up for us.

It was the first time I had attended a Friday prayer service entirely. I had previously taken part in prayers during the week and held discussions with mosque leaders, but never directly in a predominantly Muslim country. Unable to understand the language, I focused my attention on the tone, body language and the general atmosphere.

On the left-hand side of the mosque, a large illuminated display shows several dates and times, indicating precisely what day it is according to both calendars and at what time the day’s prayers are due to take place. When it was time to begin, however, the mosque was barely full. The worshippers arrived at the very last minute – in fact, after the muezzin’s call to prayer – and, more notably, whilst the prayer was already underway, including just before the final, main prayer. When the main prayer and the prostrations began, we moved right to the back to avoid any misunderstandings. It was difficult to squeeze through the worshippers; the crowd was spilling out in all directions. At that point, the rows for the main prayer formed very quickly.

The sermon began promptly, without any prior recitation from the Qur’an or any other text. It lasted twenty-five minutes, with no written text or teleprompter. Then the main prayer began with a sung introduction and a brief response from the congregation, followed by chanting. Perfectly aligned and in sync, the worshippers performed two complete sets of prostrations. At the end, the participants turned their heads to the right, then stood up and left quickly.

Several things struck me:

– The power of seeing before me so many backs of men in the prime of life, dressed in all manner of attire—from the most ceremonial to the most modest—all seated on the floor in exactly the same, egalitarian manner. I found myself associating this image with that of a troop awaiting an order to stand up and leave quickly, whilst in fact it primarily reflects a centuries-old tribal cultural tradition. Nevertheless, the lack of gender mixing left me with a certain unease. On the balcony, only a dozen women took an active part. We were told that participation is not compulsory for women. Their many household duties allow them to perform their prayers at home… Well, never mind…

– The Imam’s body language: speaking freely, his voice and gestures evolved over time and in accordance with the message. At times he became very forceful, even confrontational, with strong and rather aggressive gestures, a tone that seemed to become threatening, and a very loud voice, at times verging on shouting. I was later told that these were the passages where he was highlighting the unique and exemplary character of the Prophet Muhammad and his incomparable merit. This harsh tone unsettled me every time; I could not imagine preaching like that, except perhaps when delivering a fierce political speech against a threatening opponent.

– The absence of music, communal singing and active participation; the impression that I was facing a crowd of individuals who had come here to be taught something rather than to share; the lack of joy during the service stood in contrast to the hugs and embraces between a few participants before and after the service, the absolute silence for a whole hour – all of which were surprising, and not really conducive to experiencing that moment as a ‘whole’ human being, body, soul and spirit. I sensed a great deal of understanding, attention and care, but no love. Yet after the service, the Imam was beaming with joy and kindness, including towards us. From what I was told afterwards about the content of the sermon, I gathered that he was encouraging the faithful not only to practise a ritual, but to be good, generous and kind Muslims in their everyday lives.

– I cannot judge the intellectual rigour of the sermon, but I did not get the impression of an interactive teaching style that takes people along a journey and involves them in it. Rather, it was an ex cathedra lecture that demanded constant attention and made extensive use of short stories from the Qur’an or recounted events as very concrete examples to be followed. All in all, a very community-oriented, well-attended and highly ritualised event. Clearly an integral part of local social life. Several participants had arrived early and stayed on afterwards to ‘make up’ prayers they had been unable to perform over the past few days. There was a strong sense of communal identity, of nurturing bonds that were both personal and familial, and a devotion for which I have no valid reason to believe it is merely formal or exploited for other purposes.