Over the past few weeks, I’ve witnessed a handful of religious practices so obvious and so starkly contrast to what I’ve experienced in the states that my memories of religious observations in the past seem muted to a point of nonexistence.

Through my observations of Islamic, Catholic and Jewish practices, I’ve learned that London is a city full of religious dedication and, simultaneously, one of intolerance.

This may partially be attributed to my choice of location for this semester. Living on the west side of central London seemed like a great idea when I found a flat with a big living room that was under stipend. Once I moved in and became acquainted with the typical residents of this area, it came as no surprise when a British person I had met referred to my neighborhood as ‘Little Beirut.’

Walking the four blocks from my flat to the nearest tube station, I went down a road congested with black and thought to myself, ‘Darn, why can’t they make a hijab in green? Or a nice robin’s egg blue, perhaps…’ Although I pass hundreds of my Muslim neighbors every day, I rarely actually see them. The interactions I’ve had with the predominantly Muslim demographic while waiting for a coffee at my local Starbucks, or stopping off to buy some groceries at the local market, has been nothing short of pleasant, but shallow as a shower, all the same.

The most public emotion I’ve seen from my neighbors has been the night on which Ramadan ended. Exiting my apartment building around 10 p.m., I heard shouting and honking. Rounding the corner to the main street, I saw why. The streets had been barricaded, numerous police had been stationed at each corner, and the roads and sidewalks were flooded with most of the area’s Muslim population, celebrating the close of their most significant religious holiday with more zest than Otto the Orange at halftime.

In addition to being introduced to Muslim practices I’d never known before, I also got an interesting taste of Catholicism. Pope Benedict XVII visited London over the weekend to speak at Hyde Park. With the park being four short blocks from my flat, I decided to bail on Yom Kippur evening services to attend, figuring that seeing the Pope was something way too cool to miss out on.

All day Saturday, the city had Pope Fever (I know it’s not as catchy as Beiber Fever, but work with me): The news channels and newspapers flooded with ‘Pope-this’ and ‘Pope-that.’ Equally flooded was Hyde Park. Strictly adhering Catholics arrived hours early to preach the sanctity of their religion and the rectitude of the Pope. People opposing the Pope arrived equally as early and with a strong presence, toting picket signs that displayed messages like ‘Pope protects pedophile priests’ and ‘Pope promotes HIV and AIDS by denying condoms.’

The park, populated by followers and critics of the Pope, as well as the plain curious, was transformed into an outdoor arena. If I didn’t know for a fact the Pope isn’t musically inclined, I would have thought the park had been set up for a music festival.

After securing a decent place against the street barricade, I waited for the highly anticipated Popemobile. Yes, there is a thing called the Popemobile. Finally I saw the white, glass-encased automobile coming down the road. He passed 10 feet in front of me, paradoxically waving with the gusto of Miss America, while portraying age comparable to Gandalf. And then he was gone, off to say Pope-ly things to the tens of thousands of people amassed to see their spiritual leader.

More profound than being immersed in a religion so different from my own, or seeing the most prolific religious leader of today, I think what has impacted me most about religion in this country is how foreign my own seems to me. Being raised a Jew, I adhere to the High Holidays. This means that last week, I, along with the rest of the Jewish world, rang in the Hebrew year of 5771. Considering I’m 3,345 miles from home, I opted to celebrate the holiday at the temple of a rabbi based in London that gives hospitality to Jewish students.

Had I not walked to the temple with the rabbi, I would have walked right past it. The temple I attended blended in with the houses on the street, not marked by so much as a building name. When I verbalized my surprise at this, I was informed it was done purposely due to enormous security risks and hundreds of threats on London temples each year. It was then that I noticed the enormous FBI-esque men flanking the temple on either side of the block and at the front door.

If the security hadn’t been enough to throw me off, the temple, itself, was. Entering the temple, I was quite taken aback to learn women and men were not permitted to sit in the same section during services. Although I expected some differences because this temple is fairly more conservative than my own, I’d always viewed gender segregation as something of the past, neither relevant nor necessary in present day.

This trifecta of religious shock has provided a different view of London for me. I didn’t expect such a modern city to have such deep religious roots and still struggle with intolerance. The temple I attended had to be camouflaged as a safety precaution. The man who described my neighborhood as ‘Little Beirut’ did so with disdain, most likely unfounded. While Catholics rejoiced the arrival of the Pope, it was more so protested by critics.

So while this vignette has proven to be concentrated and interwoven, it’s prompted me to do things like see the Pope in the middle of fasting on Yom Kippur and ask a woman in full headcover where she got her awesome Ray-Bans. Not to mention I got to cross off one task on my extensive bucket list — see Pope: check.

Jessica Smith is a junior information studies and technology and television, radio and film major. Her column appears weekly, and she can be reached at jlsmit22@syr.edu.

Published on September 19, 2010 at 12:00 pm