Category: African Immigration

In the 1990s, Silver Spring was turning into one of Maryland’s most diverse suburbs, filled with immigrants from all over the world. Among them were Ethiopian Muslims, many of whom worked as taxi drivers. One of these drivers was Abdirahman, a quiet man with deep eyes and a gentle smile.

Driving a cab was grueling work, long hours, unpredictable fares, and the constant stress of navigating traffic. But for Abdirahman, his taxi was more than a livelihood; it was a prayer rug on wheels, a place where faith connected with the streets.

He kept a small prayer rug folded neatly in the trunk. When the time for salah came, he would pull over by a gas station or quiet corner, spreading it out between rides. More than once, curious passersby asked him what he was doing, and he would answer simply, “I am praying.”

In his glove compartment, he carried a pocket Qur’an, its pages worn from being read at stoplights and breaks. He broke his fast during Ramadan with dates kept in a small container by the dashboard, sipping water between rides before returning to the wheel.

His passengers rarely knew his struggles, but sometimes conversations unfolded. One late-night rider, curious about the beads in his hand, asked what they were. Abdirahman explained the tasbih, softly reciting praises of God. By the end of the ride, the passenger said, “You’re the most peaceful man I’ve met tonight.”

Though life was hard, Abdirahman always gave back. Each Friday, after Jummah at a small Ethiopian masjid in Silver Spring, he donated a portion of his earnings to help new arrivals. He was among those who pooled money to rent a storefront that became an early Ethiopian prayer space.

For his children, his taxi became a symbol. They remembered their father coming home late at night, tired but smiling, carrying groceries bought from his tips, and reminding them to never miss their prayers.

The Ethiopian taxi drivers of Silver Spring were not wealthy, but they carried something priceless: the dignity of work, the constancy of prayer, and the determination to make Islam visible on Maryland’s streets. Abdirahman’s story, like many of his peers, is a reminder that Maryland’s Muslim history is not only built by professionals and scholars, but also by working men who kept their faith alive behind the wheel.

In the 1990s, Maryland’s universities drew students from across the world, but many chose to stay after graduation, establishing new lives. Among them was Abdullah, a young Sudanese engineer who came to the University of Maryland, College Park, on a scholarship.

Abdullah had grown up along the Nile, where his father was a farmer and his mother a schoolteacher. He carried with him both the discipline of his studies and the warmth of Sudanese hospitality. Arriving in College Park, he was struck by two things: the scale of the campus and the loneliness of being far from home.

He threw himself into his classes, civil engineering lectures, long hours in computer labs, and internships that introduced him to Maryland’s infrastructure projects. But faith remained his compass. He prayed in dorm hallways, broke fasts with whatever he could find, and soon discovered PGMA, the small mosque in Lanham.

At PGMA, he found not only prayer but family. Older Sudanese immigrants welcomed him, often inviting him to their homes for stews and warm bread. He quickly got involved in the mosque’s programs. He helped with youth tutoring, volunteered to design flyers, and even drafted proposals for how PGMA could expand its small prayer hall into a larger space.

After graduation, Abdullah accepted a job with a Maryland engineering firm, where he contributed to projects that shaped highways and bridges across the state. Yet, no matter how busy work became, he returned each evening to PGMA. For him, service to the mosque was not separate from his profession, it was an extension of it. “If I can design for Maryland,” he often said, “I can also design for my community.”

Years later, PGMA would unveil architectural improvements, a larger prayer space, classrooms, and parking that bore traces of Abdullah’s early sketches. Though he never sought recognition, his fingerprints were literally in the walls.

For the Sudanese community, Abdullah became a model: educated, rooted, faithful, and giving back. His story reflects the broader truth of Maryland’s Muslim history, that mosques were not just funded by donations; they were constructed with the professional skills, labor, and dedication of the people who considered them home.

In the early 1990s, as civil war devastated Somalia, leading to waves of refugees began arriving in the United States. Maryland became one of their destinations, especially Lanham and the nearby neighborhoods of Prince George’s County. There, affordable housing and existing Muslim networks provided a fragile but genuine lifeline.

At first, Somali families felt like strangers even within the Muslim community. They spoke Somali, not Arabic or Urdu. Their food, clothing, and customs were different. Many carried trauma from the war, memories of lost relatives, nights in refugee camps, and the disorienting leap from Mogadishu’s chaos to Maryland’s quiet suburbs.

It was PGMA that opened its doors. Families arrived in borrowed cars, carrying small children in their arms. They found not only a place to pray, but a community that tried to welcome them. The masjid basement filled with Somali mothers spreading mats for their toddlers, while young men clustered near the entrance, searching for work leads and help navigating America’s systems.

Language was a barrier, but faith was a bridge. Prayers united them. Iftars in Ramadan became cultural exchanges, jollof rice and sambusas placed alongside biryani and molokhia. Slowly, friendships grew. Pakistani and Egyptian families offered rides, tutoring for children, and help with paperwork. Somali youth, quick to pick up English, started to act as translators for their parents.

One elder later recalled: “We came with nothing but our faith, and PGMA gave us a place to breathe.”

Over the years, the Somali presence reshaped PGMA. Friday prayers filled with new accents and rhythms. Qur’an competitions featured Somali children who excelled in memorization. Youth groups became multilingual, bridging African and South Asian experiences.

The Somali families of Lanham not only found refuge; they enriched Maryland’s Muslim tapestry with resilience, hospitality, and a renewed spirit of community. Their story is a reminder that mosques are not just built from bricks and donations, they are built from the courage of those who enter them seeking belonging.