A cocoon for contemplation
Visiting Sharjah Mosque in the height of summer is a spiritual experience and a journey of discovery.
By Anna Seaman
Photographs by Majid Al Bastaki
The burning heat of the Gulf summer makes the light play tricks. Even as the sun descends towards the horizon, as scorching day promises to make way for the respite of evening, shimmering waves of heat-refracted light hang in the air. This atmospheric phenomenon makes the approach to Sharjah Mosque one late afternoon in June feel like the building is a mirage rising from the searing sands.
The majestic mosque oversees an otherwise featureless landscape in Sharjah’s Al Tay region, save for the electricity pylons that march in the wilderness around it. Clearly visible from the car as I approached, it almost appears ethereal now as I make my way along the entrance drive, its grey-tiled domes and slender minarets reaching into the unbroken blue of a desert sky.
Perhaps that is intentional. The mosque, the house of God, is a spiritual refuge.
Even coming from Dubai, which is almost overpopulated with statement buildings, Sharjah Mosque is surprisingly impressive up close. Designed by Dubai-based ATI Consultants, Architects and Engineers, the mosque opened in 2019—fittingly on the first Friday of Ramadan. Five years in construction, it was a passion project for His Highness Sheikh Dr. Sultan bin Mohamed Al Qasimi, Ruler of Sharjah, who commissioned the mosque and is said to admire Ottoman architecture.
The biggest house of worship in Sharjah—larger even than King Faisal Mosque at the heart of Sharjah City—the mosque and grounds span almost 19 hectares. It was built to accommodate 25,000 worshippers and seemingly every one of them was considered in the design with ablution fountains dotted around the external prayer areas as well as charming trellised gardens, which make the whole place feel like the oasis it is supposed to be. Its many domes—one primary dome and six half domes, as well as a multitude of smaller domes throughout—are decorated on the inside with calligraphy and ornate motifs.
Inlaid with mother-of-pearl, the impressive wooden doors at the main entrance were made using kündekari, a decorative form of joinery favoured by the Ottomans that involves interlocking wooden pieces cut in geometric shapes. With no glue or nails used, the wood is better able to withstand heat and moisture and will remain in good condition for centuries.
The bright white marble and the juxtapositions of angles and domes make for Instagram-worthy photographs akin to abstract artworks. The vast marble courtyard, still cool underfoot, made the walk a pleasant experience despite the summer swelter.
The biggest house of worship in Sharjah—larger even than King Faisal Mosque at the heart of Sharjah City—the mosque and grounds span almost 19 hectares.
Top, a chandelier in the shape of a 16-point star hangs low over the ground-floor prayer space. The wooden doors at the main entrance, above, were made using kündekari, a decorative form of joinery favoured by the Ottomans.
Strolling around the gardens, as the sun begins to set, I am keenly aware of the army of gardeners who carefully tend to the shrubs and trees and keep the fountains and water pools clean. All around the mosque is the sense of running water, an anomaly in the desert. In the front gardens, water flows down the trellises sparkling in the reflected light and cooling the air and the marble. I am impressed by the attention to detail. The stairways are wheelchair-friendly with ramps cleverly assimilated between the steps and small lights are fitted in the flower beds to illuminate the gardens as night falls, meaning that the beauty is appreciated at any hour.
The interior is as humbling as the exterior. Quranic verses in gold on the ceiling circumnavigate a central point that corresponds to the highest point of the highest dome. This point is a metaphor for a universal God, and the circular space that the calligraphy forms represents a pathway directly to the divine powers. Contemplating this, whilst sitting on the deep red carpet, my mind wanders to houses of worship all over the world, almost all built with painstaking care and an emphasis on opulence, used as reverie for an almighty power. It reminds me more than anything else of the universality of faith and how people should be united by belief, not divided by differences.
Hanging low in the centre of the ground-floor prayer space, which is set aside for men and non-Muslims (the mosque welcomes both Muslims and non-Muslims, although non-Muslims cannot enter during prayer times) is a chandelier in the shape of a 16-point star, which has cosmic significance but also a practical purpose to light the space for sunset prayers.
I look on from the female section upstairs, shielded from the lower section by beautifully crafted mashrabiya, an architectural detail rooted in place. Along with the stained-glass windows that refract the light, they give the interior space a sense of comfort and protection from the outside world.
When the azan—or call to prayer—rings out it is loud and almost hypnotic. The imam’s voice carries the call through the mosque, across the grounds and far into the surrounding desert. The sound is entrancing and demands a stillness, whether a listener is faithful or not. As the worshippers gather, it is easy to move from appreciation of the small details to the wider vision for the mosque, which was built to bring the community together in the act of prayer, to celebrate the beauty of architecture in a desert and to foster a spirit of tolerance and inclusion, which makes for a better tomorrow for us all.
The mosque is in stark contrast to the desert landscape from which it rises. Abundant water and well-tended gardens give the sense of an oasis.
