The Mosque Architect | مهندس المسجد
"He designs mosques. She's the community board member who challenges every plan. Their fights become flirtation. Their flirtation becomes more."
The Mosque Architect
مهندس المسجد
The Islamic Center of Houston needs a new building.
I've been hired to design it—contemporary, accessible, a mosque for the next century.
The community board has other ideas.
Specifically, Fatima Hassan has other ideas.
I'm Omar.
Forty-one, architect. Designed mosques in Dubai, London, Kuala Lumpur. This should be easy.
It is not easy.
"The minaret is too short."
"The minaret is proportionally—"
"It looks like a stub. Where's the aspiration? The reaching toward heaven?"
"Mrs. Hassan—"
"Doctor Hassan. And the dome is wrong too."
She's impossible.
Fifty-three, divorced, professor of Islamic art at Rice. Every meeting becomes a lecture on Ottoman vs. Mughal aesthetics.
And somehow, she's fascinating.
"You're not listening," she says at our third meeting.
"I'm listening. I'm just not agreeing."
"What's the difference?"
"One involves my professional expertise. The other involves capitulating to a board member with strong opinions."
"Strong opinions? You think I have strong opinions?"
"I think you have a fortress of opinions surrounded by a moat of citations."
She stares at me.
Then she laughs.
"That's the first clever thing you've said, Mr. Al-Rashid."
"Doctor Al-Rashid. And thank you."
The project drags on.
Meetings become marathon sessions. We argue about every element—the prayer hall, the courtyard, the women's section that she insists be equal, not separate.
"This isn't traditional," I say.
"Traditional means women pray in basements. I won't accept that."
"I wasn't suggesting—"
"Good. Because I'd have your license."
Six months in.
The design is evolving—better, I admit, for her input. She's pushed me to think beyond convention.
"Drink?" I offer after a late meeting. "There's a café nearby."
"Are you asking your most difficult client for coffee?"
"I'm asking my most challenging collaborator for conversation."
We talk for hours.
About architecture, about faith, about her marriage that ended when her husband couldn't handle her success.
"He wanted a quiet wife," she says. "I was never quiet."
"Quiet is overrated."
"You're not quiet either."
"That's why we work."
"Do we work?"
"The mosque is going to be extraordinary. Because of the fighting."
"I prefer to call it discourse."
"Call it whatever you want. It's the best collaboration I've had."
"Collaboration." She tilts her head. "Is that what this is?"
The kiss happens in my office.
Late night, reviewing the final plans. We're arguing about the fountain placement when suddenly we're not arguing anymore.
"This is inappropriate," she says.
"Completely."
"We should stop."
"We should."
We don't stop.
She's soft everywhere.
I discover this against my drafting table, her back to my plans, her body arching as I explore.
"Omar—"
"Tell me what you want."
"I want you to finally agree with me on something."
"What?"
"That this is right."
"This is right."
We make love surrounded by mosque blueprints.
The building that brought us together, that frustrated and inspired us, witnessing our surrender.
"The minaret is still too short," she gasps.
"Shut up about the minaret."
The mosque is completed a year later.
The community loves it. The architecture journals feature it. The minaret—slightly taller than my original design—reaches toward heaven.
"Happy?" I ask at the opening.
"With the building?"
"With everything."
"Deliriously."
We married six months ago.
Small ceremony. She wore a headpiece based on Ottoman designs she'd critiqued in my original plans.
"This is acceptable," she said, examining my design for her wedding invitation.
"Just acceptable?"
"Exceptional." She kissed me. "But don't let it go to your head."
We still argue.
About everything—furniture, dinner plans, whose turn it is to lead prayer.
"This is exhausting," I say.
"This is marriage." She pulls me close. "And you love it."
I do.
Alhamdulillah.
The End.