"Brother, do you mind if I pray here? I'm Muslim. It's prayer time."

Confused, slightly disoriented, I lifted my head from the computer screen and looked up at the gentle voice on my right. An olive skinned man with a day old beard smiled at me. I looked into his dark brown eyes. A hesitant warmth radiated from his face.

"No, of course not. Of course, I don't mind," I said softly and quickly, my hand somehow ending up on my chest, investing the moment with sweet dignity and authenticity.

"Thank you," he said as his smile widened. "Allah be with you."

I watched him lay out his beach mat on the concrete floor, and then looked away to not disturb him. The rain had picked up. Left and right, people in their swimming shorts and bikinis, carrying umbrellas, beach chairs, and all sorts of summery stuff, ran towards us. Soon, each island-goer around Hanlan's Beach waited under the protection that the public washroom area provided. The thrill of being soaked at the beach, even though initially frustrating, brought us together in a weird intimacy. A few man joked in the corner, drinking beer. An elderly couple on identical white bikes FaceTimed who sounded like their daughter. Enclosed by a curtain of rain all around, we waited together, knowing that summer rains pass as quickly as they come. While my anonymous Muslim friend prayed to Allah on my right, lifting his head and then bowing down, more topless men, dripping wet, biked towards us from the left side, seeking refuge under the roof.

A slightly drunk man with a bare chest, sunglasses hanging on his black baseball cap, walked by my praying friend with a beer can in his hand. He glanced at my friend, and with confusion on his face, glanced again. After the third glance, he comprehended what was going on, that there was prayer happening on the ground.

We were fifty meters away from the “clothing-optional” Hanlan's Beach. A few minutes ago, I was laying in my nylon hammock, butt naked, lost in my book. Now, the same hammock crushed under my butt like a cushion to soften the concrete, smell of damp soil in my nose, I wrote next to a Muslim man praying. “Thank God, I put on my shorts,” I thought to myself.

Next line can easily be something like this: I love Toronto! We are so multicultural and tolerant here. But it's not. That would be too easy. It would be a full stop.

Growing up in Turkey, basically where everyone's ID card read "Muslim" in the back, I never prayed. I once learned a prayer from the Koran, Sural Al-Fatiha, only to get an A in religious studies class. I memorized the prayer and forgot it the moment I got my A and sat down. Growing up, Islam resided outside of my reach while it surrounded me all around. It was something we did not do.

Islamophobia is everywhere. But I find the most interesting flavour of this phobia in the hearts of people who live in Muslim countries. The American brand of Islamophobia, or Karen's Islamophobia which pops up in progressive news as something silly and infuriating, is not that interesting. Karen is simply xenophobic and racist. Karen dislikes immigrants, black people, and she can't handle when someone speaks Arabic at Starbucks. She thinks Muslims are overtaking America. And obviously they are not. Karen's so afraid that she is delusional. Karen is not really worth talking about.

The Islamophobia of my mother is more interesting because she lived her whole life in a country populated with Muslims. Islam, whether she liked it or not, wafted in the air and filled her ears five times a day with every call to prayer. Most days, she didn't even notice the call to prayer since it happened everyday, five times a day, forever.

I immigrated to Canada partly for educational reasons and partly out of fear. When the idea of immigration first came up, it was 2009. Erdogan had just strengthened his hold on the country, and a fear of harsher Islamic grip on politics murmured around. My mom sparked the first conversation on "getting a second passport" in case the country went downhill, that is to say, followed Iran's footsteps into theocratic autocracy.

When the Western oriented Iranian Shah was toppled by a coalition of communists and Islamists in 1979, my mom was 19 years old. The Islamic revolution in a neighbouring country, for a liberal and non-religious young woman like my mom, suggested the terrifying possibility of the same happening in Turkey. And I think that possibility stuck with my mother. The fear subsided but never fully disappeared. I mean, it is one thing to be a man under Islamic rule and another to be a woman. My mom as a young woman watched Turkish news bits, seeing Iranian women, who wore colourful and revealing dresses a few months ago, now wearing black burkas, not even allowed to drive a car. That kind of fear doesn't leave. As we say in Turkish, that kind of fear dwells in one's bone marrow.

After Erdogan shushed the Israeli Prime Minister, Shimon Peres, at a global convention and stormed out in protest; after he arrived in Istanbul to a hero's welcome and became the revered spokesman of the oppressed Muslim world against the West, my mother's fears intensified. Erdogan transcended Turkish borders now, and embraced the Muslims of Middle East and North Africa. He was a larger than life figure. With what had happened in Iran on her mind, all this signalled to my mother one thing, "it's all going downhill from here."

Then, my praying Muslim friend finished his prayer and got up. I opened my mouth to say something but held myself back to allow him a minute of meditation after his prayer. Then I couldn't hold myself back and said, "Allah kabul etsin." He shined his humble smile once again, leaned in, and asked, "Sorry, brother, what did you say?"

"I said, Allah kabul etsin. That's what we say after prayer in Turkey. It means, 'may Allah accept it.'"

"Oh, thank you brother," he said and pondered for a second or two. "Oh, I see now. Kabul... That's what we say too. I am from Iran. We say kabul, too. Yes, yes, it means accept. Many similar words between Turkish and Farsi. So you are Turkish, brother? I thought you were definitely Canadian."

I found myself in a usual situation once again. With slight embarrassment and pride, I acknowledged my fair hair and skin; told him how even Turks sometimes confused me for a tourist. He stroked his own beard as he pointed at my ginger beard with his eyes, "I know some Turkish people have really white skin, but your hair, brother, I would have never guessed.”

He took a pause like a man about to broach an important topic, and continued, “You know, I wasn't a Muslim until six, seven years ago. I didn’t grow up Muslim.” He took another pause, weighed down by the words about to come out. “I thought I was in love with a girl, but then I realized she wasn't right for me. But I couldn't move on. I was very attached. I couldn't get her out of my heart. I felt stuck and in pain," he said with a hand on his heart.

I nodded and encouraged him to speak. I could already feel a bond of warmth and humility forming between the two of us - something I've felt with most Iranians I met in Toronto.

"That's when I started to pray. After all that pain, for the first time, I felt something sweet and beautiful. The humility, brother, the humility I feel every time I put my forehead on the mat, that saved me.” He stopped and realized the world outside. “I hope I am not taking your time," he said with such humility and appreciation for a moment's generosity that even if I had somewhere to be I could not have left him at that moment.

"Of course, not," I said. "If you were, I wouldn't have said 'Allah kabul etsin' anyway." His smile grew and he placed his open hand on his heart, thanking me with his body. I felt at home, somewhere between Istanbul and Tehran.

"I am very passionate about this. You can probably tell. It changed my life. My attachment to that girl went away when I met Allah. I learned patience." He pointed to his head with his index finger and continued, "I thought I could solve everything with my mind, but I learned that's not enough." Now he moved his hand back on to his chest, "I learned there are things we cannot comprehend, but only feel. I read the Koran and felt that Koran is Allah's word. You know, the Bible has been changed and altered many times but Koran is all Allah's word. I kept researching, reading, and praying. I began to understand the secrets of the universe. And patience is one of them, brother. It is the hardest one to learn. But thank Allah, he helped me grow more patient."

The world around us shrunk into a little bubble of me and him. I couldn't take my eyes off his face for a while. I looked at his receding black hair, his soft, round head. He wore a basic orange tank top and long blue surfer shorts down to his knees. Looking at his legs, I realized his long, slender figure. He stood tall from my angle. Once again, with a gentle worry in his eyes, he asked, "Brother, I hope I am not taking your time?"

The repetition of the question only inspired more humility in me. I felt like time was not mine, how could he take it away from me. I smiled and said, "No, no, please."

"That sweet feeling, brother, it brought me back to life, allowed me to move on. And you know, it helped me to think better too. The sweet feeling, the feeling which I feel every time on the mat, in front of the Creator, clears my mind and I can think better." He put his hand on his heart again. "Even when my mind can't solve a problem, I pray, and then feel the solution in my heart. It comes to me silently, wrapped up in that same sweet feeling."

I had nothing to say. I just wanted to listen to his sweet, beautiful words. If there was a God, my friend was his messenger.

"You know, brother, in the West hearts are heavy. They call it mental stuff here, you know, mental health. That's the heart brother. People's hearts are heavy here. I came here in 2009 and my heart got heavy too. Thank Allah, he lightened my heart and freed me.” His eyes filled with tenderness. “Brother, I hope I am not taking your time. I see you are on your computer. The screen is black and green. Are you coding, doing work?"

"No, no," I said, turning my screen towards him. "I am writing. Seeing you pray and ask me if it's okay for you to pray next to me inspired me to write something. I'm not working."

"That's good, brother. I'm happy it inspired you. What kind of work do you do?"

"I just finished graduate school," I answered, feeling a little embarrassed being unemployed. "So, I'm taking the summer easy, reading, writing, going around." He felt my embarrassment and smiled like there was nothing to be embarrassed about.

"If you don't mind me asking, brother, what kind of program did you do?"

"I studied philosophy at Ryerson."

"Oh," he said, his smile ever-growing. "I went to Ryerson, too. I studied computer engineering, but I do UberEats now. I didn't like the office environment. It wasn't for me. And the money is not bad with Uber. I do it on my electric bike and make $20 an hour."

Not knowing what to say, to fill the air between us, I responded, "At least now you work on your schedule."

"Exactly, brother. Look, today, on a Tuesday, I'm here. Enjoying the beach, walking on the sand, and praying at the island."

Realizing I never asked his name, I said, "I never got your name."

Once again, he put his hand on his heart and said, "Ali," leaning in to shake my hand.

"I'm Doruk," I said. He repeated my name to remember it. Then we talked about Iran, Turkey, Erdogan, politics, football, the shitty economies of our countries, and all the things that bound people from our region to one another. He began to fold his mat, but he couldn't leave neither could I.

At the end, after time began to move again and our sweet bubble slowly gave way to the world outside, he said, "Brother, thank you for your time and warm conversation. I appreciate it. It was great talking to you."

We shook hands one more time. I told him hopefully we will see each other once again, somewhere in Toronto. He said, "Insallah" as he put his foldable tent on his back. He gave me one more of his sweet, tender smiles, and walked away.

Until our intimate bubble oozed into the world and disappeared, until my Muslim friend Ali walked away, I had not even realized that rain had stopped and the sun started to shine again. I looked up at the sky and took a deep breath. Dark clouds had all passed and only a few soft, white clouds remained in the light blue sky. I put my computer in my backpack, walked back to my spot on the beach, and set my hammock as I talked to two nude men. I took off my shorts once again, laid down butt naked in my hammock, and wrote this piece.

D - 12/7/2022