It was the second week of Ramadan. You could feel that people had settled into the rhythm of it, but mornings were still hard. There was tension in the air. Everyone around seemed to be tired, anxious but not wavering. It was the effort of restraint held together by faith. People were going to the mosque five times a day, and especially for Maghrib—the sunset prayer that breaks the fast.

That day, I walked into Al-Azhar Mosque. There was this low hum, and the crowd moved in waves, back and forth.

I was standing near the entrance, waiting for the flow to ease. That's when I noticed her—a girl standing right next to me. Fully covered by her niqab—green, not dark, not dull. Only her eyes were visible. She looked at me, and they just lit up, like two little beads, reflecting the light.

Her name was Sarra. She was holding bags, waiting for her sister, dressed the same way as her. The moment I saw Sarra, I just knew I had to say something.

"Salam alaikum", I said. "Wa alaikum salam", she answered.

Her English wasn't great, but we still talked—through a translator, through gestures, through a lot of laughter. She was the same age as me. I told her I was working on a project about Cairo, and I couldn't help but noticed how the shape of her eyes changed—and I understood that she was smiling widely. She was the warmest person I met on that entire trip. Maybe in my whole life.

Then she reached out to hug me. I wasn't sure if that was okay—given the culture. But where I'm from, we hug all the time, so I hugged her back, more confidently. Still carefully. It all felt like I found a sister. We stood there in the middle of all those people, having just met, holding each other—from a closeness I still can't explain.

In that moment, it felt like someone had reached out a hand and said: you're doing everything right.

That's how it works, I think. You find your people in any country, any place, any corner of the Earth. Puzzle pieces falling into a larger picture. You realize that someone with sincere intentions—anywhere in the world—is already your family. Regardless of religion or cultural differences. Despite anything that can stand in between you and them. Eventually a kind heart outweighs everything.

I walked on, wanting to see the mosque inside during such a sacred and tender time. I saw a lot of women there. Of every age. In hijabs and burqas of every color. All of them were there for the same reason: to pray and to wait for the moment they could finally eat. People were sitting on the floor, sharing food that had been donated. Children were running around, but somehow not making noise. I had never seen anything like it. That endless pull toward togetherness, toward building something—it brought tears to my eyes as I stood at the threshold. Faced with that sincerity, I felt like a child again, for the second time in those few minutes in Islamic Cairo.

I had seen enough. It was time to go. At the entrance, almost at the door, I spotted a young man I recognized from my visit the week before—I'd seen him during the midday prayer, standing in the sun. Last time, I'd seen him from inside the mosque. I went up to him myself and asked whether I could go in and be present during the women's prayer. A little shy about his English, he asked me: "Are you a Muslim?" I told him the truth—no. I told him that Islam and the wish to understand it meant something precious to me. I could barely describe it. He still said no.

So I went and sat in the open courtyard of the mosque, under the sun, and listened. **The sheikh—the mosque's own spiritual leader—was singing as if the prayer belonged to all of us, and everyone around me seemed to hold their breath.

Then the young man came to me. He gestured, pointing at the entrance door, and said: "You can go." He must have spoken to someone.

And I saw him again at the exit that same day. He recognized me and said hello. Two girls in hijabs—his acquaintances—came over. I started talking to them. They explained, warmly, that if I had any questions about Islam—anything at all—I could come to this mosque before noon and ask the sheikh directly.

Then I got talking with the mother of the most talkative of the two girls.

"My name is Maryam. The holy name…" "Nice to meet you. I'm Katrin", and I shook her hand.

She told me that the sheikh could help me with any questions, that I could even ask to speak with a sheikh who knew Armenian. As she explained, Al-Azhar functions not only as a mosque but as a university—Muslims come from all over the world (Indonesia, Malaysia, Singapore, the Philippines) to study here before returning home to become sheikhs in their local mosques or to teach. That's why, she said, gently and with care, the sheikhs here often speak several languages.

"You don't need to be Muslim to talk to the sheikh. You can even come without a scarf—it's fine. But inside the mosque, it's about respect. Like in a church."

Maryam also said the sheikh could help me with anything, and could arrange for a woman to walk with me through Cairo—to show me the city, to talk about Islam, to introduce me to each mosque we visit, its history, its story.

"The best thing you can do is to understand,"—meaning, to understand their rhythms of life, their values.

"Shukran", I said, and meant it. I thanked her with all my heart.

"You are more than welcomed, yallah", she said joyfully, her voice almost singing, childlike. In Arabic, yallah is used in everyday speech the way you'd say "let's go"—an impulse word, a warm send-off.

"Ramadan Kareem"—a blessed Ramadan to you—I said.

Everyone answered at once with the same.

And I left. "You are more than welcomed, yallah", I repeated under my breath, replaying her voice in my memory so I would never forget it.

Address

Al-Azhar Mosque

El-Darb El-Ahmar, El Gamaliya, Cairo Governorate