Meeting the Muslims (II)

To be honest I do not like spending too much time in the big cities of the Subcontinent. The megacities are no exception. Having arrived in Bombay (the Indian government writes 'Mumbai', reflecting the fact that little people here never managed to master the Latin alphabet well - look at a random menu in a restaurant and you see similar mistakes) after a night and a day of non-stop traveling, I was glad to leave that city as soon as possible. Chennai and Bangalore (Indian government: Bangaluru) had the same effect on me, and I see Delhi as a necessary evil. It may therefore not come as a surprise that Dhaka (12 million inhabitants) was not really my thing. However, it had its good points too.

The national museum had an interesting collection of archeology, anthropology, and art. The entrance sign, stipulating that among other things it is forbidden to take bombs inside the building, made me wonder if I had to be glad or worried.

The bazaar is, apart from the dust, garbage and public urination, a fairytale that could have come straight from the Arabian Nights. However, Sheharazade could probably not have invented this one, because it exceeded everything I have seen in the Middle East in size and busyness. Older men in long white shalwal qamiz (the pyjamas traditional muslims on the Subcontinent wear) and orange dye in their beards (the local fashion, makes them look like giant walking carrots), young men in jeans and over-sized sunglasses, women in colourful saris or black niqaabs, hideously deformed beggars, thousands of carts, porters and rickshaws trying to scram their way through narrow alleyways, the shouting, the music from hundreds of small iPods or portable radios, the screaming of animals being carried to the butcher, the yelling of children, and all of that together in so little space that you wonder how anything can still move forward. But still, it does. And this maze of small alleys, stands and shops spreads over several kilometres of the old city. And above all that chaos and noise: buildings four stories tall, clusters of electric wire like spider webs, and minarets so slender that they seem to challenge the laws of gravity themselves.

No wonder I sat down in front of the 'star mosque' (Sitara Mashed), an old mosque with beautiful tilework, whose courtyard is an oasis of peace in the millstream of Dhaka's bazaar. As everywhere else in public space in this country, I was immediately surrounded by several young men who were intend on befriending me. One of them introduced himself as Sanjeesh. He told me he was a teacher and worked in a school close to the mosque. That got me interested, and soon we were talking enthusiastically. He even told me he considered himself to be a non-practicing Muslim, a humanist, rather. I told him he could consider me to be of similar conviction.

Sanjeesh had just finished inviting me to visit his school and the principal there ('a very good teacher with knowledge about everything') when our conversation was cut short by a group of older men. I turned and was confronted with a huge carrot, I mean, orange coloured beard and a big, flowing shalwar embroidered with gold draped over a rather prosperous belly. The man in question certainly issued authority, but also had the deceiving gentle expression so often found in older Muslims of some authority.
'This is the imam of this mosque' Sanjeesh told me. The man kept holding my gaze and demanded in a soft tone:
'You... what country is come from?'
'Switzerland' I replied. I had just told Sanjeesh that I had lived there and did not want to cause too much confusion.
'You... what like Bangladesh?'
'Ow, Bangladesh is a very nice country. People are much more friendly than in most places. Very hospitable.'
This made the imam beam, as I expected it would. Hospitality is a pillar of good behaviour in Islamic culture, so it is a sort of big compliment to a man of his stature and social function.
'It is time for prayer. We cannot keep sitting here' explained Sanjeesh the presence of the imam and his fellow carrot beards. 'Let's go to my school.'

So I left the mosque and crossed the street into a big old storehouse, nearly crashing into a couple of rickshaws and some other pedestrians. The storehouse has a new function, since the principal and founder converted it into a school 36 years ago. Sanjeesh was again telling me all sorts of praise about the man I was to meet. He had founded the place, taught the teachers themselves and was himself, like me, a science teacher. A big, grinning man with huge glasses entered the room and took place behind the desk. He told some of the boys to fetch me a drink - more than welcome since my throat was dry as paper after the hot and dusty bazaar. Then he came straight to the point.
'The first thing I have to tell you sir, as you are a science teacher, is of Allah. Or God. We must be sure of His existence. Because, my watch, has it a creator?' He paused, and before I could answer, replied himself: 'It has a creator. And this clock sir, has it a creator? It has a creator. So we must know that if we look at a flower, or our eye, they must have a creator too.'

I was a bit stunned. I had expected this man, the former teacher and now-boss of the free-thinking young man whom I met, to be of similar sort. Instead I was confronted with the old Watchmaker's Analogy, a line of argumentation that was already thoroughly refuted in the early 19th century, even long before Darwin published his theories. I let the man lecture me for a while about God, His greatness and His Prophet before I had had enough.

'Yes sir, but that is not really about science, is it? I taught science before.'
He looked at me curiously. 'How can we do science without God sir. Because God is behind everything. If I have a chemical reaction, it is the wish of God. If I have a plant, it is because God wished it to live. There is no science, no understanding, without God.'
'Well yes. But you are searching for a cause sir. That is teleology, it is not science. In science, we make observations and try to draw conclusions from only these. And we do experiments to make more observations and refine our theories.'
'Ah yes, you are a scientist. And what type of research did you do?'
'I did petrology. I looked at rocks and the minerals and structures inside them.'
'So you can say that God made these structures and minerals?'
'Well, that is not really my concern sir. I would only make observations and search for the processes that made them possible. As a scientist I would draw a line: I would not wonder about causes.'
'You see,' he addressed the young men behind me, including Sanjeesh and some of his colleagues, 'this is what they do, in America, in Europe. They do not want to think of God. I tell you only Islam is the right way. The Christians cannot truly understand.'
I did not want to object or quarrel with him. Totally abashed, I left the school. This man had been teaching science for over three decades without understanding what science is. Instead of teaching his kids to be inquiring and curious about nature, he had been telling them how wonderful it was, because God created it. It gave me an interesting new perspective on the system of education here. And why places like Bangladesh lack research institutes of any importance.