Jama Masjid

Two bombs went off during the evening prayers in one of the largest mosques in Delhi last Friday. This is not, perhaps, the most cheerful way to start off a new blog, but it's an event I've been thinking about a lot in the past few days.

I visited the Jama Masjid on my second full day in India. Still jet-lagged and weary from my 54 hours in transit, dragged along by a hired tour guide who answered "Yes, Ma'am" to every single question I asked, and entirely overwhelmed by my surroundings, I was more intimidated and frustrated by my trip to the mosque than anything else. It's a beautiful old mosque, sure, I wouldn't put it down as a highlight of my trip. Truth be told, there is little love lost between the Jama Masjid and I.

The Jama Masjid is located in the midst of a bustling, crowded marketplace in Old Delhi, the Muslim Quarter of the city. Close to the famous Red Fort, it is often added to tourist trips to the area as a prime example of Mughal-era mosques. I had already visited the Red Fort that day, and I was under the impression that my driver and tour guide was taking me back to the car. Instead, as we approached the parking lot, our cycle-rickshaw turned off in the opposite direction, straight into the teeming masses of people streaming through the market place streets, all seemingly intent on staring at me, shouting at me, and, of course, trying to sell something to me. Confused and on my guard - having been warned that if I gave one of these tour guides an inch he would have me exchanging all my money for a bag of worthless 'gems' before I could say namaste - I began to semi-politely question where we were headed. Having never heard of the Jama Masjid, I wasn't able to make much sense of his reply. I made certain he knew I wasn't interested in seeing any of his friend's carpet shops, and reluctantly decided to sit back for the ride and see where we were headed.

We stopped in front of the mosque - a large, imposing structure with a giant staircase leading up to the top - and I surmised that this was our destination. My tourguide led me to the top, where I was informed by the random Indian at the door that, while entrance to the mosque was free, it would cost me 200 rupees (approximately $5, the same price as a night's stay in a decent hostel) to bring my camera inside. I was a bit skeptical and put up a fight - the tourbook mentioned nothing of a 'camera fee,' and the man collecting the 'fee' wasn't exactly official-looking. My tourguide and the six men who were suddenly crowded around me (whenever there is a verbal altercation in India, you can be sure that at least five random men will join in -- especially when there's a white female involved!) all assured me that this was legit, and that if I didn't want to pay the fee, I could certainly leave my nice, fancy camera in the 'camera holding area' and go in without it.

Right.

After much haggling and arguing, the men admitted they were just trying to scam me, and let me in. Okay, right, maybe not. Actually, I complained timidly for a few minutes and finally just forked over the 200 rupees(which I can assure you is an astronomical price; it would be like paying $20 to get to see Boston's Trinity Church) sure I was being scammed but seeing no way of getting around it. It was only my second day in India; I was still getting my sea legs, after all.

I entered the mosque, a little disgruntled and a little grumpy. It was, as I've said, beautiful, with a wide open courtyard, intricate red detailing throughout, and large open windows that gave me a fantastic view over the insanities of the market place below. I had little appreciation for any of it, however, because a few minutes after I entered, I realized my watch was missing. Not only had they scammed me for 200 rupees, they had made off with my watch as well. (It's a classic trick, of course: get me distracted, crowd around me, and then slip off my watch while I'm not paying attention.)

My visit to the Jama Masjid was, as I've said, not a highlight of my trip. Yet all the same, it rips my heart out to hear of these bombings (a month or so ago, a series of bombs went off in Varanasi; last October in Delhi marketplaces) occurring in places I had walked, in a country I've come to think of as a second home. It's like they blew off bombs in my own backyard. I can think of nothing but the people I came to know -- most incredibly kind and generous, funny, open, friendly; some scheming and thieving, but clever bastards, none the less -- and wonder if they are safe. Yes, even the ones that made off with my watch.

When terrorism came to America in the form of planes crashing into the World Trade Center, it suddenly woke us all up. We called neighbors who had cousins who were visiting New York and maybe could have been in Manhattan at the time; we called friends who had family who lived somewhere on Long Island. We suddenly were all inter-connected. We suddenly were all part of a greater community. Even if we were Southern rednecks or Mid-Western soccer moms in our normal lives, we were all New Yorkers that day.

When the bombs go off in Baghdad (as they seem to do daily) or Tel Aviv (as they did today and likely will again some tomorrow hence), we give it barely a passing thought. Unless we happen to know someone visiting Israel that week, or have a family member in the service, these daily murders, these acts of hate, don't affect our day to day life in the slightest.

I don't know how we re-create the sense of global community we had after 9/11 after every bombing...or, if we even should. Most people and most governments aren't motivated to action until we are personally affected. I know I'm not. Yet short of sending every person to visit every country in the world, I don't know how we find that motivation for action.

I don't know how to make myself feel for the victims in Iraq or Israel or Uzbekistan or Darfur or wherever the latest crisis is as much as I felt for the victims of 9/11...or the victims in Delhi and Varanasi. When the bombs went off at the Jama Masjid on Friday, I was, for a moment, an Indian. I don't know how to make myself, for a moment, Israeli. I worry that until I learn - until we all learn - bombings like these are not going to end.