Sole Searching
Finding more than open doors in Indonesia
By Jane Erickson
I was working in Indonesia as an English teacher when I settled into something of a rut, no longer challenging myself and finding little tranquility in the chaotic port city of Makassar. In a quest to find peace and inspiration, I sojourned to Masjid Raya, the city’s oldest mosque. Prior to living in Indonesia, I would never have imagined going to a mosque, especially on my own. As a white, non-Muslim woman who speaks two words of Arabic and only a few more in Indonesian, you are either asking for trouble, or giving it to someone else.
But I had to go. In the frenzied sprawl that is Makassar, the aesthetic order and tranquility of Masjid Raya draws you in, out of both curiosity and reverence. On one of the busiest streets in the city, the mosque is an unexpected sight—a conglomeration of off-white circular pillars surrounding a massive domed oval structure. The mosque rises from the ground in a way that is, well, quite heavenly. Its large open-air archways welcome you on all sides, so the entire structure breathes. This ventilation system is obviously a necessity of equatorial practicality, but spiritually speaking, the idea that a place of worship has no physical doors is a refreshing alternative to the heavy, wooden cathedral doors I am accustomed to.
Welcoming appearances aside, I was still hesitant to enter. After all, I am a guest in this country—is it discourteous to invite myself into its most holy sanctuary?
Reflecting on the reasons I decided to come to Indonesia, I remembered that fear is largely rooted in misunderstanding and that misunderstandings surrounding matters of faith are the most difficult to surmount. As an outsider, it’s difficult to comprehend a religion organized by a different language, a non-Latin alphabet, and a myriad of cultures, which some Americans judge as being connected to terror and hate.
I took a deep breath, draped the shawl I was carrying around my head, left my sandals at the base of a pillar, and attempted to slip inside quietly. The warmth of the granite floor on my bare feet was soothing as I made my way up the dauntingly grandiose steps, but before I had made it halfway to the main entrance, two men rushed to my side. For a moment I didn’t know if I’d be welcomed or turned away, but they kindly led me to the main area of prayer.
In my travels I have visited many neighborhood mosques and places of worship, but none came close to the Masjid Raya. As with all mosques, no decorative iconography adorned the temple walls—only scripture from the Koran engraved in flowing Arabic calligraphy. Rows and rows of reflective granite tiled the floor, which mirrored everything in sight as the light spilled in from the archways. Ensconced in silence, I took a prayer rug and laid it behind the smattering of kneeling men. The only sounds I could hear from inside the mosque were soft patterings of bare feet taking their places to pray, and I quickly drifted into the slow pulse of all that was around me.
I gathered myself to leave as the three o’clock prayer approached and, with several nods of appreciation, departed. But as I neared the place where I had left my sandals, I quickly saw they were no longer there. After discreetly circling the vicinity several times and eliciting questioning glances from the gathering crowd, I remained shoeless and grew increasingly apprehensive as the mosque began to fill (a friend had informed me that it was impolite to visit the mosque during the call to prayer). In a moment of panic, I contemplated the possibility of contracting typhoid from walking barefoot in Makassar. Then the same men who welcomed me approached and inquired as to why I was so flustered.
I explained the situation, and they began to help me look for my sandals. “It is imperative she finds her shoes! We must find her shoes,” they exclaimed in Indonesian. As three o’clock grew nearer it became increasingly apparent that it was time to pray. The men began picking up random pairs of women’s shoes, trying to pawn them off on me. After what seemed like twenty minutes of politely declining to take someone else’s shoes, one of the Masjid Raya Imams—Muslim religious elders or teachers—walked by and asked what the big fuss was about. He had put my sandals under the box, right over there, to keep them safe. “Isn’t that where you would have put them?” he asked.
We all shared a laugh—mine a bit tenser than the rest. After many bows of thanks with my hands clasped in front of me, I turned to go. The Imam walked me to the street and bid me farewell with good wishes and an invitation to return.
So now when I visit the mosque I am known as Ibu Sepatu, or the “shoe lady.” My circle of friends grows larger with each visit, but it always includes the men who helped me that first day. It is the most unlikely group of friends I have made while living here but also the most rewarding. And while I suspect they secretly refer to me as “the crazy white lady who lost her shoes,” I know the title is accompanied with a smile.
But an endearing nickname was not the only outcome of this uncomfortable experience; I also realized that differences and misunderstanding are not something to be feared. Misperception tricks us into thinking the surrounding world is filled with locked doors. But by immersing ourselves in that so-called misperception, even if the moment holds entirely different meanings for each of us, we learn that life—much like the Masjid Raya—has no locked doors at all.
Jane Erickson graduated from Hobart and William Smith Colleges in 2007 with a double major in Political Science and Public Policy. As a student she traveled to Northern Ireland and Ireland numerous times to study, research, and organize service-learning programs. After graduation Jane received a Fulbright grant to teach English in Makassar, Indonesia. She currently lives in Boston with plans to attend law school in the near future.