I had expected mornings in Borama to be quiet. No traffic noise, no refrigerator humming, no fans whirring, no airplanes overhead. But sounds of Somalian village life swept in through our screened windows before the sun even peeked over the mountains. A rooster crowed, and next door a woman chanted and sang. I went out on the veranda and, over the walls surrounding our house, watched the singing neighbor gather brown eggs. A cart dripping water rattled past, pulled by a weary-looking donkey guided by a man slapping its hind legs. A fight broke out between stray dogs among the cacti and thorn bushes across the dirt road. With a high-pitched yelp, a female limped away from the pack.

These were not sounds of machines or mass productivity but of life: water, animals, singing. Over the cacophony came the deep, clear song of the muezzin, reminding faithful Muslims that prayer is better than sleep.

Eighteen years among Somali Muslims in the Horn of Africa taught me much about prayer.