Ash Wednesday in Doha

By Rev. TauVaughn Toney

I did not plan to walk into a mosque in Doha during Ramadan with ashes still on my forehead. Our visit had been scheduled for another day, but due to a change of plans, there I was—on Ash Wednesday—carrying the visible mark of my faith into a sacred space that was not my own, in a country that was not my own.

This Spring Break, I accompanied Georgetown students to Doha, Qatar, for the DC-Doha Dialogue program—a yearlong cohort of undergraduate students from the Hilltop and Doha campuses. In the fall, students from Doha visited D.C., exploring campus and the city while engaging in discussions on Jesuit values such as People for Others, Community in Diversity, and Faith that Does Justice. In March, students from the Hilltop traveled to Doha to continue those conversations and, for many, experience a country and culture unfamiliar to them.

We visited the UN to discuss labor rights efforts in Qatar after the World Cup, explored the Qatar National Museum, the Bin Jelmood House and Slavery Museum, read books with children at a primary school, and even watched the sunrise over the Persian Gulf. Each experience was powerful, but volunteering at the Minartain Iftar Tent is one I will carry in my heart for a lifetime.

Originally, we were scheduled to volunteer on Tuesday. However, when we arrived, the leaders informed us they had reached capacity for volunteers and asked us to return the next day. We agreed, not realizing the significance of that shift.

Wednesday morning, we visited Doha’s Religious Complex—the only area where non-Muslim (i.e., Christian) sacred spaces are permitted to be built. Picture a corporate park of nondescript churches, all sharing a massive parking lot, with heavy security and TSA-style checkpoints at the entrance. There, we visited a Catholic church (pictured left), where those of us who were Christian received our ashes. We also toured an Anglican church that hosts multiple Protestant traditions, each worshiping in different rooms on Fridays (the equivalent of Sunday in Qatar), and a smaller Indian Orthodox church. From there, we visited the Al Mujadilah Center and Mosque for Women before returning to Georgetown’s Qatar campus.

The day had been so full that I had completely forgotten the ashes on my forehead—until, on our way to the Iftar tent, someone pulled me aside. With good intentions, they reminded me of the cross on my skin and gently warned me of what could happen if I entered the tent with it still visible.

For the next five minutes of our short walk from Georgetown Qatar to the tent outside the Education City Mosque, I wrestled with a decision: wipe the cross off to assimilate or leave it on and risk scrutiny—at best. In that moment, Ash Wednesday took on a meaning I had known in theory but had never been forced to live into. What does it mean to bear witness to my faith in a place where it is neither dominant nor widely shared? And more than that, where it can be perceived as a colonialist threat to a people’s history and identity? Something I know about all too well. I was torn.

It would have been easy for me, a Black man, to wipe the ashes away and blend in among the African and Middle Eastern men attending and volunteering—but what would it say about my own witness?

As we neared the tent, my heart pounded. My mind played out all the possible scenarios.

But when we arrived, I was welcomed warmly. After being assigned to a volunteer group, a fellow volunteer pointed curiously at my forehead.

“Ash Wednesday,” I said simply. He nodded as if to say “…respect.”

With the cross on my head, I was placed at the entrance to pass out dates and water to those arriving for Iftar. As the crowd grew, more of the brothers volunteering greeted me with kindness, introducing themselves. Together, we served at least one thousand men and boys entering the male side of the tent.

“Assalamu alaikum, brother.”
“Wa alaikum assalam, brother.”

My angst subsided and I was at peace. 

When everyone had entered, the imam led Maghrib. I had planned to step back and stay out of the way, but one of my newfound brothers invited me to stand beside him. I accepted. Together, shoulder to shoulder, we bowed, kneeled, laid prostrate, and prayed—he to the God who called him to fast, I to the One whom I represented with ashes, both to the Divine who created us and caused us to call each other brother.

And in that moment of unity, I felt God.

Religious pluralism is often discussed in theoretical terms—dialogues, panels, statements about shared values. But in that moment, standing in the quiet beauty of the Iftar tent, pluralism was not abstract. It was embodied. My Christianity was quite literally written on my skin—I was an outsider—stepping into a place shaped by a different rhythm of prayer, a different understanding of God’s revelation, a different way of being faithful.

And yet, in that space of difference, we encountered the presence of the Divine together. We recognized the holiness and wholeness of the humanity we share. We were able to tap into the rhythm—the Spirit of Love that holds us and unites us when we surrender and allow the Spirit to move us. 

Rev. TauVaughn Toney is a Protestant Christian Chaplain and Residential Minister in Copley Hall. All photo credits are his. 

Read  DC-Doha Dialogue Fosters Cross-Cultural Relationships, Immersion at GU to find out more about the DC-Doha Dialogue Spring Break trip.