I drank in the sound.

The smartly dressed youngsters around me barely paused, their designer gear a uniform. Perhaps they adjusted a bulletproof vest, or shifted the cradle of an Uzi. An unconscious gesture, seeking comfort as dusk approached.  
 
Then, as the Shabbat drew near, the young Jews went back to their friends and drinks in this popular bar. We hurried our way through the streets of the Old City, accompanied all the while by that plaintive, wailing cry: the call of Jerusalem.

The same noise had echoed through the cheap plaster walls of a hotel-cum-brothel in Damascus, a sweltering warren, half-open doors revealing intimate sounds and the mingling aftertaste of perfume and sweat. At 5 a.m., long after the bouncers had ejected their now-silent human cargo, we'd be woken by the harsh, but enticing, call to the faithful. 

Further to the west, in the desert of the Western Sahara, I'd watched the men and women pray in lines, angled to Mecca. The imam called out the start of the prayer, 'Allaahu Akbar' – ‘God is Great’ – as nature dwarfed and surrounded us. 

In Tripoli, near the northern border of Lebanon, I stood in an old Crusader castle, hand resting on dust-coloured stone, basking in hot light as the mullahs duelled from their minarets during noon-time prayer. 

I miss that sound. It holds no fear. Rather, it draws me towards the mysteries of another continent, even when I hear it criss-crossing the roofs of Brick Lane in London. 

[excerpt from chapter 8, HOMELAND: Into a World of Hate by Nick Ryan]

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