A Personal Story About This Art Piece

The idea for Female Prayers - The Sacred & The Secular came to me in Marrakech, Morocco in 2015. The streets were occupied by men. Men, men, men everywhere. As a woman traveling alone without a male guardian, you get the looks. The comments as you walk through the narrow streets.

One morning at breakfast in my riad, the manager started chatting with me. Not long into our conversation, he began asking questions about me traveling alone. If I had a husband. Why I wasn't married. That everybody should have a friend. I answered politely, but inside I was furious. My boundaries had been crossed so many times in those few minutes. I felt he was telling me I was "wrong"—that I'm only worth something as a woman when I'm with a man.

That evening, after a long, unusually hot day exploring Marrakech, I returned to my riad and sighed in relief. Here, I could find peace. No more looks or comments or awkward questions. I showered and got ready for bed. Then the evening prayers started.

My riad sat between two mosques. The prayer calls never start simultaneously—they're always shifted. Sometimes it sounds almost like a musical form: a canon, a call and response, an echo in the urban soundscape. I'd always thought the calls sounded beautiful, the human voices expressing so many emotions. And I'd always taken for granted that they were male voices.

But that day, annoyed by the patriarchal culture I'd experienced on the streets, I realized: as a woman, I couldn't even have a space of my own in my bedroom—the most private place in a house. The male voices kept seeping through my walls.

The next morning I woke to the morning prayers and wondered: How would it sound if female voices called for prayer?

The voices I could hear in my inner ear were pure and soothing. It sounded as a beautiful experience. I decided this was something the world should hear.

My family is from Istanbul, Turkey. I was born and live in Denmark. Both my parents are secular. I've always felt disconnected from my maternal grandmother in Istanbul. She seemed traditional, with heavy energy. Her life was full of hardships: six children born, two lost—one in the cradle, one to meningitis with severe disabilities. She raised five children alone while working in the fields and making sure meals were served for the rest of the household.

My grandmother used to say, "We are all Muslims." It triggered me. I didn't understand what she meant. I didn't identify as Muslim because of my secular upbringing, and I felt she was trying to convince me of her faith. I felt defensive. Today I understand she meant we're all born innocent and equal from Oneness.

Despite her hard life, Grandmother always found peace in prayer. My fondest memory of her is watching her pray. The poet John O'Donohue expresses how I felt:

One of the most tender images is the human person at prayer. When the body gathers itself before the Divine, a stillness deepens. The blaring din of distraction ceases and the deeper tranquillity within the heart envelops the body. To see someone at prayer is a touching sight. For a while, they have become unmoored from the grip of society, work, and role. It is as if they have chosen to enter into a secret belonging carried within the soul; they rest in that inner temple impervious to outer control or claiming.

Growing up secular, I never understood the peace my grandmother talked about. Her spiritual practices looked monotonous to me—the same movements, prayers, words, tone of voice. Now I practice yoga every morning: the same sequence of postures, same opening and closing chants, same intonation. I'm doing the same thing. As humans, we all need to connect to something within ourselves.

I had a hard time feeling close to my grandmother. There's the bloodline—her DNA is in me—but she seemed traditional, heavy. Yet whenever I watched her pray, her blue eyes glowed. When she occasionally looked up to see who was in the room (me, tiptoeing around), she looked so peaceful. She smiled softly. She radiated light.

In that moment, even as a child, I thought she was no longer my grandmother. No longer in her roles—the woman who suffered from depression, the mother of six, the daughter, the girl she once was. She was something else. Full of love and peace. So light. When she finished her prayer, she returned to her old self: my traditional grandmother, heavy energy, the mother, the wife.

I'm doing this art piece to reconcile with my grandmother. I know she's watching over me. I'm doing this for myself—as a woman, I want to be seen. I'm doing this for the many generations of women before me, in any life circumstances, who didn't and still don't have a voice.

When I think of my grandmother, I remember her physical appearance: petite, fragile, weak bones, wrinkly hands, her body worn by working in the fields and raising five children. Worn out, fragile, weak—these words pop into my mind.

But I'm wrong. She was strong and powerful. She had resilience. She showed up every day for her family and provided for them despite her losses, depression, and hardships. I wish I had been better at seeing her for who she was and asking: What is it like being you, Grandmother?