Lately, it's also become the place where they explain to visitors from the press and the neighboring community just what it's like to be both Muslim and American. Straddling two worlds is something they used to take for granted.
Before Sept. 11, the biggest events at the school were holidays and well-attended family nights when students and their parents met to socialize. Now, students have spoken and sung at open houses at the mosque next door and have been urged to write to magazines and talk to outsiders. They've sent thank-you letters to New York firefighters and have raised $4,500 for children in Afghanistan. No one was surprised to see television cameras in the hallway at the start of Ramadan. "After Sept. 11, some people might have a different idea of who Muslims are," said Abdelgawad, who stayed late one day to talk about the school. "There are some people out there who don't like us."
Granada, one of 436 Islamic schools in the country, is the largest in California. It's easy to pass the cavernous, nondescript building in a high-tech business park without noticing either the school or the adjacent mosque of the Muslim Community Association of the San Francisco Bay Area. Mosque members started the school in 1988 as a place to educate their children in the traditions and teachings of Islam. Many saw it as a safe alternative to regular public and private schools where kids might be exposed to drugs, alcohol and other influences prohibited by their religion.
Nuzhath Quadri, who grew up in a traditional Indian Muslim family in Chicago, toured other schools before deciding to send her two children to Granada. She and her husband, a software programmer, wanted their kids to know Islamic culture. "I'm second generation, and when I look at each generation, I see it gets more diluted," said Quadri, who heads the Parent Teacher Organization. "I always felt like I knew less than my mother. But now my third-grader can make better Arabic sentences than I can."
Granada is the biggest and oldest of five Islamic schools in the Bay Area. It is run by a board of directors, but is tethered financially to the Islamic Community Association because the $4,600 annual tuition covers only about three-quarters of the school's costs. The association makes up the difference, with no outside funding. To do so, said Principal Khalil Obeid, would create political and practical complications.
All but a few students are Sunni, the world's largest Muslim sect. The parents come from 25 countries, including the United States, and varied backgrounds. They are Chinese, Vietnamese, French, Latino, African American and Arab--some born here, some not. "This is the beauty of California," said Obeid. "You don't feel like you're a stranger here. You feel you are part of society."
What unites students is Islam. Each afternoon they cross the connecting corridor and remove their shoes to pray in the mosque. In class, they study not only the standard California curriculum in math, science and English, but also Arabic, the Koran and Islamic history. To do that takes from 8 a.m. to 3:15 each day, an hour longer than most other schools. The older students have so many books that they store them in milk crates by their desks rather than cart them around all day. The school plans to start standardized testing soon so students can be compared to others around the state.
On one fall day, the strains of second-graders singing about Ramadan could be heard in the hallway. Another class in the computer lab tapped away at a typing program. Students passed by in the hall, hands clasped behind their backs or a forefinger held to their lips - - reminders to keep from making too much noise.
Posters in the hallway showed the melding of the secular and Islamic worlds. There were notices for Boy Scouts, student drawings of animals and lakes and signups for basketball next to billboards with explanations of the six articles of Islamic faith and why Muslims don't celebrate Halloween, despite the lure of candy: "Islam encourages reason, not superstition."