In his place stood his grandson, Usop. At twenty-three, Usop had returned from a university in the west, his mind full of algorithms and crisp, formal Arabic. He had memorized the khutbah text perfectly. But he had never felt the wood of the mimbar beneath his palms.
(Be patient, grandfathers… be patient, aunties… be patient, everyone. Allah never sleeps. Don't feel lonely. Don't feel alone. Is the land of Patani the land of prophets? I'm not sure. But this land is the land of people of faith. And faith is like the kelate tree. The harder the wind blows, the stronger its roots become.) khutbah jumat jawi patani
When he finally recited the dua , the amin that rose from the 1,000 men was not a whisper. It was a thunderclap. It shook the dust from the ceiling fans. It was the sound of a people recognising themselves in the mirror of their own language. In his place stood his grandson, Usop