Where is the Madrasa? Words and photography by Iqra Saeed

If there’s one thing you should know about Islamic classes in SouthWestern Sydney, it’s that they operate from anywhere imaginable. The upstairs of a mechanic shop? The local Sheiks run a mixed gender and age class. The grocery store? After hours, this local shop opens a sliding door to a room for children to learn about the Qur’an. The apartment of your (non-blood related) Aunty? This is probably the most common location.

In What is a Madrasa?, Ebrahim Moose states that the term ‘Madrasa’ derives from the Arabic word ‘درس’ (Drs), which means ‘to study’, and so Madrasa refers to ‘a place of study’. Moose clarifies that now in some Muslim cultures, the word is equivalent to religious Sunday schools, but the existence of Islamic study groups can be traced back to the seventh century. The basic function of the Madrasas I attended from the age of seven to 12 were to teach us how to read Arabic and how to navigate through the world with faith.

In most of the Madrasas, excluding one, there were no flyers, no sign at the front with an advertisement, and no listing in Yellow Pages — so how parents found out about these lessons was a mystery to me. When I asked my Mum, she spoke about a web of Aunty-led networks that essentially boils down to word of mouth.

In the search for these Madrasas, my Mum and I visited apartments to meet these teachers and it was common to be met with familial hospitality, to be presented with chai and samosas, with children running from room to room and peeking out from the hallway. One woman’s place was a short walk from our home — it looked like a grape exploded in her apartment.

Everything — from the couches, the walls, the pictures, the pillows, the blankets, and the tablecloth — was a different shade of purple and, to my seven-year-old self, enamouring. I was devastated when my parents chose another Madrasa.

Now I cannot speak for the legalities of these businesses, but I will say that growing up with other Muslim girls in the community, and learning about our religion, bred a strong sense of sisterhood and cultural awareness that has stayed with me.

After school, my two sisters and I, wearing our matching cheetah print hijabs, would quickly scoff down dinner at home before piling back into our Tarago by 5pm, missing out on the newly released episodes of Dance Academy. A quick fiveminute drive and we were at the Madrasa, sitting down on scratchy polyester carpet with small wooden tables for our Qaidas (a book to teach beginners how to read the Qur’an) to rest on. The first class we attended was next door to a butcher and attached to the back of a store. During class, I would get glimpses of kitchen knick knacks, like stainless steel pots and stacks of wooden spoons through a grey curtain they were stuffed behind. After class, we were allowed to look around and buy things that our parents wanted, so I would come home from class with thermal containers, whisks, and cutlery for my Mum. Another afterclass activity I was introduced to was the ‘sticky note trading system’, where we all swapped different coloured and shaped page markers to use in our Qur’ans and Qaidas. I admired the older girls’ collections of assorted page tabs that they would store on the blank pages at the end of their Qur’ans (and also get in trouble for).

A year or so later we had progressed past the beginner reading level, so we had moved onto a more structured Madrasa called the ‘Iqra Youth and Welfare Centre’. This was the most established place and the only Madrasa I attended that was not hidden behind a shop or apartment.

This last Madrasa was different from the rest, not because it was on top of a mechanic shop or that our teacher was a truck driver — it was that he was a man, a Sheik, and that our class was mixed gender. In an alleyway that is visible from the train line, there is a mechanic’s workshop and a staircase that is littered with leather sandals, slippers, and sneakers.

Despite the Madrasa seeming ominous with the loud train honks and squealing engines, coupled with the convenient dark alleyway location, it was one of the most welcoming places. The Sheikhs were a lot less strict than any other teacher we had and, more importantly, at the end of almost every class we would all get treated with quarters of Krispy Kreme donuts.

There was never a pre-planned last day of Madrasa; one day my older sisters had convinced my parents that because we had all proficiently learned how to read Quranic Arabic, we could take the reading into our own hands. So we stopped attending, never saying goodbye to any of our friends. Now these Madrasas are buried around my neighbourhood, but memories of them resurface every time I go to the local shops, go for a walk around the block, or catch the train. What emerges from the prominence of these Madrasas is a culture that refuses to be buried, no matter which building they are run out of.

LEFT-PAGE:

Shoes lined up at the entry way to the mechanic Madrasa

TOP-LEFT: Madrasa shopfront

TOP-RIGHT: The mechanic Madrasa

BOTTOM:

The ‘Iqra Youth Welfare Centre’

I want to document post-pandemic China through my lens. These photos were taken around Chongqing, and Leshan. I travelled around the time of Chinese New Year, which was the first time in three years that China completely lifted all pandemic restrictions. You can observe people’s retaliatory consumption, as they line the streets while remaining cautious about COVID; the chic woman dressed in all white, the lady making fairy floss with gloves and eye protection . Since I started street photography, I realised that recording a city can go beyond your standard photos of landmark buildings. Pressing the shutter on those quiet alleys or bustling city blocks is an intentional act to appreciate a city’s minute details.