(Deseret News) It’s a Saturday night during Ramadan and, as the sun sets, the courtyard of [the] Muslim Community of Palm Beach County comes alive as locals gather for iftar, the breaking of the fast. Men take seats at the long white tables that stand between a large mango tree and green-pillared arches. Beyond the mango tree, on the other side of the parking lot, women wrapped in colorful saris sit under a large white tent, ready to break the fast with dates and neon red juice. As the time approaches, a hush cascades across the tables. A woman announces, “You can break the fast now” and everyone reaches for a date, some whispering prayers before they begin to eat.
Bodies, tense from a day’s hunger, relax. Chitchat resumes. A jar of chutney materializes and is passed around, the women spooning it onto the fried snacks before us. Now the women seated around the table explain to me that after this quick, light snack, we’ll go inside to pray. Afterwards, we’ll return for a meal. My daughter and I follow the line of women into the building and up the stairs to the sequestered balcony on the second floor, where the women line up side by side to pray, forming rows.
Though I’m probably the only non-Muslim present, I’m not the only person here who wasn’t born into the faith — downstairs, among the men, is the sole Latino Muslim present at the mosque tonight: Wilfredo Ruiz, a Puerto Rican man who converted to Islam two decades ago.
