I head to NYC on occasion, as Masjid al Farah is the closest, most tolerable mosque. Imam Feisal's khutbahs are like warm honey, and men and women pray together in a rather cozy space; men who arrive late go upstairs, giving equal opportunities to men and women to see the imam, and fully participate in Jumu'ah.

I've come to the conclusion that Jumu'ah, and indeed all congregational worship, is meant to bring together the vertical (human to God) and horizontal (human to creation) dimensions of faith. That we don't merely watch the imam celebrate Jumu'ah, and we don't worship to justify the gathering- the gathering and the worship are each other's purpose. That's part of the reason why I object to segregation in worship; it undermines an essential aspect of Jumu'ah. This is why I spent half the khutbah wondering why a few inches of wood were keeping me from participating in Jumu'ah.

Masjid al Farah doesn't have a permanent barrier of any kind. They only have these small benches, about four inches high, a foot wide, for a symbolic sort of segregation, more to hem in the women than anything else. I hate them with a passion that sometimes embarrasses me, but then again, I hate those "Whites Only" signs even more.

I walk to the masjid from the Chinatown bus stop, and Imam Feisal, like everyone else this Labor Day weekend, has skipped town. Still, the musalla is nearly full, and the hateful benches are up. At one time, I vowed that if I saw those benches, I'd grab one and sit on it. I did that the last time I was there, and I wondered what I should be doing this time around. Should I ignore them? They were working my nerves, obscuring the imam's wonderful khutbah on the significance of the shahadah in the daily life of a Muslim. Should I nab one and sit on it? The condition of the ones in front of me warned me against it. I got the idea to merely remove the benches and move back when the musalla got so crowded that they were merely taking up space that would be better used for worshipers. Alas, that didn't last long.

The benches were moved back, forcing some of the guys to move forward to accommodate the wooden barriers. To highlight the absurdity of the situation, I moved over to where the barriers weren't in front of me (also where I could see the imam better) and concentrated deeply on the khutbah, absorbing the lovely words on the meaning of Ramadan, which the imam had inserted as a sort of heads up, as it's now less than a month away. From my view, all was as it should be: believers, men and well, woman, all focused on the khutbah and on supplication, with no barriers between me, my brothers in faith, and my Lord. I looked over at the women, with their heads bowed, or looking anywhere but the minbar, as they had been during the whole sermon. It sort of disturbed me that I could see no sign of them being active participants, no sign that they were listening. Perhaps they were, but I know the difference between someone who is actively listening, and someone letting the words wash over them. They definitely looked more of the latter than the former.

When the khutbah ended, I had this strange sense that praying next to the women would be inappropriate, as if I was leaving one gathering to join another. Nonetheless, I lined up next to the women, but there was about an inch of space between me and the next woman, one I didn't correct as we began prayer.

Then the most curious thing happened: a man came into the musalla, and lined up about two inches from me. It felt like he was fixing an imbalance in this jamaat; it suddenly felt like the right place for me to be. We began praying, and I felt like this may have been worth the 4 hour bus ride after all.

This feeling that men celebrated Jumu'ah, and that women observed that celebration was strengthened when after al- Fatihah was recited, I could only hear men's voices saying "Amin". This has happened at every segregated mosque I've attended- women must be as invisible as possible . In both rakat, the only Amin I heard was my own, and it was depressing.

I think that segregation, whether symbolic or real, creates a situation where men worship and fully participate, and women become spectators, as removed from the worship as football fans are when they watch the sport on TV. But football is a sport that is meant for playing and watching. Worship shouldn't be like that, should it? And if so, can't women play too?