The misty drizzle of a mid-July afternoon settled into a slightly more steady, spitting rain, making the air feel thick, sticky and humid. The windbreaker I wore began to feel like a greenhouse. I started to think that maybe this visit could wait, after all. But I had come this far. And clearly, I wasn't the only one struggling with the rain. As I approached the front gate of the Caoqiao Mosque, a group of men struggled to take down a banner wishing the community a reflective Ramadan season. On this day, the E'id Al Fitr, the holy month of fasting and reflection came to a close, and the banner was no longer needed. They looked equally miserable, perhaps more so. One man, who wore the white prayer hat typical among Hui men, seemed to be in charge of the whole operation. He barked out orders as the other two struggled with the banner's awkward girth. I approached. "Hello," I said, "Can I tour this place?" The man in the prayer hat turned to me, perhaps a bit surprised. "Of course," he said, and I turned toward the entrance gate. "Wait," he said. Hesitating, he looked at my shorts, and then led me to a gatehouse/office at the entrance. "Oh, right," I thought, "should've worn pants." He re-emerged carrying a towel with a velcro strap across the waist. Before I knew it, my legs were covered. Wearing what was essentially a skirt, I walked out to tour the mosque in the rain.
***
The Caoqiao Mosque is hard to miss. Like so many traditional Chinese buildings, the graceful sloping lines of the mosque's roof, the warm red hue of its painted woodwork, and the intricacy of the carved gray stone on its walls make it stand out amidst the hulking, aging, concrete apartment blocs that are so typical in so much of urban China:
But beyond all of this, there's something else that makes the Caoqiao Mosque catch the eye of the itinerant passerby. Rising up from the font gate, a minaret towers over the neighborhood in Arabesque form. This building is unmistakably Islamic.
Thus, Caoqiao Mosque is a lot like Nanjing's Hui community, itself; at once inconspicuous and incongruous. As a Chinese style building it matches its surroundings. But its minarets give its Islamic identity away. This building could only be a mosque. Unlike other cities further to the west (e.g. Yinchuan, and Xining-- cities that have been profild on this website), Nanjing has a fairly homogenous ethnic makeup. As a city in an eastern, coastal province, Nanjing sits in the heart of ethnic majority Han China. In many ways, with its history as a former Imperial and Republican capital, and its Confucian exam center, Nanjing is the embodiment of traditional Han Chinese culture. Which is perhaps why its Hui and Islamic spaces stand out so clearly. They're different in a city with a relatively uniform ethnic landscape. But unlike in Beijing, or even Jinan, where the Hui community forms an enclave neighborhood of businesses and restaurants that surround the mosque at the community's hub, Nanjing's Hui community feels dispersed, spread out.
***
I near the end of my stroll around the grounds of the mosque. The interior courtyard is bustling, despite the rain. Everywhere, people prepare for the E'id festivities that will commence after sundown this evening. The man who greeted me at the gate darts back and forth, tending to other projects, and everyone seems to have something to do. From the top of the steps that lead up to the prayer hall, I peer inside, careful not to breach decorum and enter where I am not welcome or allowed. Inside one solitary man who appears to be in his thirties sits on the carpeted floor and prays. Behind me, in a long one storey building, what appears to be a study group meets. The man from the gate sees me lingering in front of the prayer hall. Plastic curtains block the view inside, and he seems to sense this. He walks up to me and says, "Here, I'll help you out," and draws back the curtain so I can look inside the hall. Thanking him, I take a glance, and turn to ask a few questions. "How old is this mosque?" I ask. "It was built during the Qing Dynasty," he says, "but there's been a mosque on this site for a lot longer. This building isn't very old, but it's influential." I ask another question: "Is Nanjing's Islamic population very large?." He considers this for a moment, adding up on his fingers. "About 60,000 (六万)," he says. "90,000 or 100,000 if you count the suburbs." At first I'm taken aback. That's a huge number. But then I remember that Nanjing's population is over 10,000,000, and suddenly it seems small, indeed. "There are a couple of other mosques in town," he tells me. "You can go visit them. But if you do, remember to wear long pants!"
***
In many ways, it's hard to believe that Nanjing's Hui community could be as sizable as 100,000. The Jingjue Mosque, Nanjing's largest, is supposedly one of the ten largest in China. It stands just outside the same subway station that travelers go to for going to the Fuzi Miao complex (which I've discussed previously). A high wall shields that prayer hall from publc view, but the edifice is imposing, and eye-catching. The gilded Arabic script at the top of the wall leaps out and marks it as distinct, different from the rest of the buildings in the area. Yet the mosque is hard to access. The mighty wall has no doorway to go through. To enter, visitors have to round the block and shuffle down an alleyway. Viewing this immense and important building is, therefore, exceedingly difficult.
In many places, a community as large as the Jingjue mosque (not to mention as historically important) would support a fairly visible Hui community. In Xining, the great Dongguan mosque is located at the heart of a Hui community that stretches over 6-8 city blocks. In Jinan, the Great Southern Mosque lies at the core of a maze of tangled alleyways filled with halal butcher shops and groceries, barbecue stands, and Islamic bakeries. Around the Jingjue, there are not similar traces of Islamic businesses or community centers. A lone shope selling halal noodle soup dishes sits a few doors down. The green and white sign on the door is recognizable (green is a color frequently associated with Islam, and especially in China, many Islamic brands or stores utilize the color green to evoke this association), but the staff on the inside all wear neat, buttoned up western style chef's aprons rather than prayer hats and scarves.
Further down the road at the Fuzi Miao, a restaurant within eyesight of the Confucian Temple sports green Arabic lettering above the Chinese on the sign. This place boasts of being a nationally famous brand with over a hundred years of doing business in Nanjing. From its "to-go" window, it sells steamed buns and fried breads (shao bing) all prepared to halal dietary standards (no pork). However, aside from the Arabic on the sign, you'd be hard pressed to tell this was an Islamic eatery. The wait staff all wear checkerboard patterned aprons in black and white, and checkerboard style berets to match. For all practical purposes it looks like any other restaurant on the Fuzi Miao. A number of places with such subtle cues pop up around the city. At MaXiangXing, a restaurant devoted to serving halal versions of Jiangsu/Nanjing classic dishes, the indications that the place is Hui is more subtle still. Aside from a sign over the door which says that dishes are "Hui Flavor" (which is different from the normal designation of something as "QIngzhen" or Halal), only some very subtle wood carving of the characters of the name of the restuarant on the back of the chairs hints at the Islamic tie (the carvings resemble Arabic letters, but actually form the shape of Chinese characters. It's subtle... and clever):
It's a recurring theme: a place may be associated with Hui culture, but the traces are relatively faint.
***
As I walk down the street at the LaoMenDong development, I stop as my eye catches something across the way. Amidst all the various knick-knack shops and new coffee houses built in reproduction old buildings, I catch what appears to be some Chinese-style Arabic script on a sign. My eyes fix on what had darted in from the corner: a shop that appears to be selling Hui snack items. Red store signs display gilded Chinese-style Arabic script, and the words "Qing Zhen" or halal are visible. It's unmistakably a Hui business.
I walk over and peek in. The shelves are covered with what looks to be some sort of tea biscuit. The packing is sturdy: bix boxes with images of the product superimposed over pastel-colored floral prints. A middle aged woman sits behind a counter, reading something on her phone. "Hello," I greet her. "I saw the Arabic on the sign outside," I explain, "and I wanted to know what this store sells." She looks up from her phone. "Oh," she says kindly, "that's because this is a store which sells Muslim products. They're cookies. Have a look." I do, and as I peruse I ask her, "I didn't realize Nanjing's Hui population was so large." She answers, "It's not really. You know, Muslims aren't supposed to eat pork, but some young people in the Hui community here don't pay attention to that. They just do it anyway." Intrigued, I continue to pretend to browse. "Are you also Hui?" I ask her. "No," she responds, "I just work here."
***
Many prominent Nanjing brands are Hui owned. At least two stores on the LaoMenDong High Street are old Hui brands. Both sell non-perishable food items that have become fixtures in Nanjing, and recognizable throughout the city. However, when one visits these shops, there's usually nobody there who's actually Hui themselves. At one down the street from the store mentioned in the vignette above, the woman behind the counter mentioned that though she wasn't Hui, herself, the owners of the store were. They'd started a franchise that had become very successful, and operated several stores throughout Nanjing, just like this one. A bit of a pattern emerged. Businesses that sold Islamic goods or Hui products stood out from the rest of Nanjing's shopping district stores. However, on the inside nobody who was Hu could be found. The people running the day to day business of the store didn't really know or understand about Hui culture or Islamic faith. Despite being such a visible part of the community, there was really nobody there to explain the cultural or religious significance, or the uniqueness of the products being sold.
***
High above the buzz of the street below, the rooftop of the Gutiao Gong Mosque felt incredibly calm. Noise from the car horns, bike engines, loudspeakers, and other actions of daily life failed to reach its location on the fourth floor, and instead filtered away, leaving relative quiet. All around the edges of the roof, potted plants and cacti lined the walls, making the space feel almost like a rooftop garden, the kind you find in American cities like Brooklyn or Chicago. A suprisingly green and sunsplashed space. As I wandered around the roof, I walked over toward the railing to gaze down at the street. From so high up, the daily routines, rhythms, and movements of the street are all visible at once. I noticed a sign on the wall explaining that this place was the mosque's 'bangkelou' (邦克楼), it's minaret. Suddenly it all made a lot of sense. From this vantage point so high up, it would be quite simple to call the faithful to prayer. I felt like I had been let in on a secret.
The Gutiao Gong Mosque isn't a building one might obviously peg as a place of worship. Rather, it looks much more like an office building. Only when one glimpses the crescent moon spire atop its rooftop minaret, or pays close enough attention to the words on its sign can its Islamic identity be discerned. And yet, despite its relatively anonymous appearance, the Gutiao Gong Mosque is the home to a center of Hui cultural and social interaction, and Islamic faith and education. Its four floors contain a wealth of intangible resources of incredible value for its congregants. The cantina on the first floor that serves halal food. The attached shop, operated by the mosque, which sells imported durian and durian foodstuffs from Malaysia (or at least that's what the cashier told me. This part is a but more difficult to tease out. The cashier mentioned that the mosque owned and operated the store, which appears much more like a coffee shop than anything else. To confuse the issue even more, the store's windows are plastered with stickers that read "Merry Christmas." So, I'm not totally sure what's going on here). The second floor houses a prayer hall that, despite being tiny, was well attended by almost 20 men of various ages on a Monday afternoon at about 5pm when I visited. The fourth floor rooftop garden and courtyard are a welcome splash of green in a city landscape full of concrete, steel and glass. In addition the rooftop's conference room style lounge serves as a library for important theological texts, and a class room for an Arabic language study group. The community here, though small, possesses a strong set of tools to build a community. And its congregants match this feeling. From the moment I stepped through the gateway on the ground floor, I was welcomed, encouraged to look around, informed by the members assembled about what kind of place this was. The people gathered that afternoon were all too willing to tell me about the mosque, its history, and about the community who worshipped there. Despite its outward ordinariness, the mosque is a rather extraordinary place, especially considering its setting. It feels almost like its hiding in plain sight.
So, what to make of Nanjing's Hui community? I'll need distance and time to say for sure. However, I am struck by the community's simultaneous visibility and invisibility. In a city that is so representative of traditional Han culture, the Hui community stands out as different. Noticable. And yet, despite this distinctness, Hui people seem to operate largely in Nanjing's background. In spite of the prominent presence of places like the Jingjue Mosque, the Hui community in Nanjing still feels defined by its elusiveness. What does this all mean? I hope to figure that out. What's certain is that this context of highly visible Hui spaces, and highly elusive Hui culture will give me much to ponder on in the coming weeks and months.