“I’m not Daesh!” the imam said with arms wide and proud.
I grinned. “Oh, I know.” I said, making my way through the door to a massive assortment of shoes. I could feel as many eyes on me as there were shoes long before I looked up from adding mine to the pile. I may have been covered head to toe like the gals in Soran, but I was still a gal—and this was a fella’s place and a fella’s-only prayer.
So confession: I was beginning to think my little “visit” was gonna be another one of those minor catastrophes culminating in some over the phone lecture from my dad on eleventh-hour-learning and the errors of my erratic ways...
Turns out, though, it wasn’t. And my dad really likes this photograph.