The Masjid Uncles of the Front Row

After an uneventful evening spent in a local cafe, I told Saif (the man behind Studio Teski) about my questionable idea of photographing old men in local mosques. At the time I thought it was quite absurd and not really worth delving into, however, a part of me knew that there was something more to it than just elderly, retired men. There was a very real spiritual reality I wanted to capture and draw attention to. I wanted to capture a feeling or the essence of something I had grown to appreciate in my years of travelling: the sacred familiarity of a mosque and its inhabitants, even when so far from home. The feeling of being at home with the greeting of “salaam” (peace) wherever I found myself. Saif looked at me and, without missing a beat, agreed to do it.

Two uncles shake hands

This was the beginning of what would be a journey of delving into the various mosques of the North West and beyond. We were met with humble men where we used our limited knowledge of Urdu and Arabic to try and explain our idea to them. We were quite often greeted with humbleness and curiosity and were very rarely rejected when we asked for a photograph.

These men are known as uncles – one of the elders of the congregation. While rarely related by blood, referred to as uncle out of respect. After a playful back and forth about why we had chosen them of all people to be photographed, the uncles would pose with a kind of honourable demeanour, much like the photos you see in archives from the 60s.

The masjid, also commonly referred to as mosque, is the Muslim place of worship. It comes in various forms, whether that be a purpose-built space or a repurposed space such as a house, a pub, and sometimes a church, but it is primarily a space where Muslims can pray one of the five daily prayers. Muslims pray in rows and the front row of the masjid is the most sought-after place to pray due to it being the most spiritually rewarding.

Two uncles at the counter of a masjid shop

Some of the most righteous men I know are the masjid uncles of the front row. They saunter in earlier than everyone else for the daily prayers, set down their walking canes, and lumber over to chairs placed right at the front. Tongues ready with remembrance, the uncles always flick through the prayer beads in their hands, whispering prayers that remain between them and God. With a beard as white as snow – a sign of wisdom of which there is no shortage – the uncle is an elderly man who spends much of his time in worship and in the remembrance of God.

The masjid uncles of my neighbourhood have been a constant in my life as they pass by my garden while I read in the summer sun. They offer me prayers for a long life, anecdotes of my late grandfather and of days that have now passed. A longing rests in their eyes as they stare off into memories of lives and people that are no longer with them, rekindling the nostalgia of youth and the struggles of migration. “Where did the years go and where have those people gone?” they often mutter to themselves.

Whichever city I have lived in, the masjid uncle is a seemingly universal entity. A powerhouse of God consciousness, a gentleness that envelopes those he encounters. The playful banter they share with each other in various languages with English often being the bridge at which they meet. Yemeni, Sudani, Pakistani, Palestinian, Somali, English, Iraqi, Malay, the world often collides in the masjid, with a unity experienced around Islam.