The Minaret at Midnight | المنارة في منتصف الليل
"She photographs minarets across the Muslim world. He's the architect who designed the newest one in Kuala Lumpur. Their visions align in unexpected ways."
The Minaret at Midnight
المنارة في منتصف الليل
I've photographed a thousand minarets.
From Cairo to Cordoba, from Istanbul to Jakarta. The vertical aspiration of Islamic architecture.
The one in KL is different.
I'm Lena.
Forty-two, Swedish-Palestinian, architectural photographer. My book on minarets is nearly complete.
Dr. Razak designed the one I need.
He's fifty.
Malaysian, trained at MIT, designing mosques that honor tradition while embracing tomorrow.
"Why do you want to photograph it at midnight?"
"Because that's when the light is right."
"There's no light at midnight."
"There's perfect light at midnight."
He grants me access.
A week at the new mosque, shooting whenever I want.
"You work differently than other photographers," he observes.
"I wait for the building to tell me what it wants."
"That's very unscientific."
"Art usually is."
"Why minarets?"
"Because they're prayers made visible. Every culture's minaret says something about how they reach for God."
"And what does mine say?"
"That Malaysia is still figuring it out. Reaching for tradition and future at once."
"That's either brilliant or insulting."
"It's honest."
"I prefer honest." He smiles—the first time I've seen it. "You see things."
"That's literally my job."
"No. You see things that aren't visible."
We work late together.
Discussing design philosophy, the geometry of Islamic architecture, where art meets engineering.
"You're not what I expected," he admits.
"What did you expect?"
"Someone who takes pretty pictures. Not someone who understands."
"I understand because I grew up between worlds. Palestinian and Swedish. Muslim and secular. The minarets became my compass."
"Your compass?"
"The one constant across all the variation. Always pointing up."
The first kiss is in the minaret.
At midnight, the light exactly as I predicted. His face illuminated by the city below.
"This is unexpected," he says.
"So was your design."
We don't go further that night.
But the kiss changes everything. Suddenly the minaret isn't just architecture.
"Stay longer," he says. "The mosque won't be done for months."
"I have other projects."
"Cancel them."
"Razak—"
"I've designed buildings my whole life. Never met someone who photographed them the way you do."
"That's professional admiration."
"That's something more, and you know it."
I stay.
The book expands. My photographs capture something I've never achieved before—connection.
"These are extraordinary," he says, reviewing my work.
"You inspired them."
"We inspired each other."
He undresses me in the architect's office.
Blueprints spread around us, the minaret visible through the window.
"Beautiful."
"I'm not thin—"
"You're proportioned. Like good design."
We make love while his creation watches.
Stone and glass and steel witnessing something softer.
"Ya Allah—Razak—"
"Right there?"
"Sempurna—perfect—"
One year later
The book published to acclaim.
His mosque won international awards. We won each other.
"Happy?" I ask.
"Every time I see that minaret, I think of you."
"That's the point."
Alhamdulillah.
For minarets that reach.
For architects who build.
For photographers who see.
The End.