How a former electricity plant has become a spiritual and social hub for Swedish Muslims

By AISHA LABI

The crescent-capped minaret silhouetted against Stockholm's pale autumn sky is a familiar beacon to Muslims the world over. Like the gold cross gleaming atop a nearby church, it beckons the faithful, a universally recognized symbol that the building beneath is a place of welcome and worship. For Muslims coming to pray for the first time at the new Stockholms Moské, however, the bronze minaret and the crescent on the building's cupola may be the only instantly recognizable emblems of Islam. The exterior is unobtrusive, covered with the same pale stucco that adorns the façades of many buildings in Scandinavia. Passers-by may not even realize that the sprawling structure nestled on a craggy incline in the Södermalm district is the most tangible indication of the growing size and strength of Sweden's Muslim community.

By some estimates, Islam is now the country's second religion, with more than 300,000 adherents in a population of 9.8 million. Though almost 90% of Swedes remain at least nominally affiliated with the national Church of Sweden, a Lutheran denomination, immigration and tolerant social attitudes have transformed the country into a multiethnic, multifaith society. Stockholm's new mosque and the community it serves are apt metaphors for that transformation.

The former electrical power plant that forms the core of the Stockholms Moské was designed in 1903 by Swedish architect Ferdinand Boberg. Like many of his fellow Art Nouveau devotees, Boberg was fascinated by Islamic themes, incorporating green and white geometric tilework and high vaulted ceilings in the interior of the cavernous building. Perhaps because of such Islamic touches, adhering to historic preservation requirements that as little as possible of the original structure be altered proved surprisingly easy for Eva Alwèn, the architect who led the project. Some of the mosque's other characteristics can also be traced to building code exigencies. An Italian benefactor offered to donate the shiny white marble with which the congregation wanted to cover the building's exterior, but the plan was rejected by local authorities. Flamboyant decorative touches have instead been limited to the interior, where enormous crystal chandeliers hang from the ceilings and the vaulted windows are etched with geometric Islamic patterns.

For student Johan Gillman, 22, the son of a Cuban father and a Swedish mother, the aesthetic middle ground Alwèn had to find reflects the balance that Swedish Muslims must also learn to achieve. "The challenge is applying Islam to a Swedish context," says Gillman, who converted to the religion when he was 15. "Having a profound knowledge of Swedish culture is a must if you want to practice your religion in a Swedish way." Someone from a small Kurdish village, for example, may come from a society in which daughters are married off without their consent at a young age. "Traditions like these can't be practiced in Sweden, where there is a long history of feminism," Gillman says. "You can't advocate certain elements of those traditions which are linked to Islam but are not essential to it."

The new mosque is of central importance to this quest for a uniquely Swedish brand of Islam. The building serves not just as a place of prayer, but also as a sort of community center. Muslims from all backgrounds gather for Arabic lessons and Koranic instruction. The Swedish Muslim Council, an umbrella organization for various Islamic groups, is also headquartered here. With a bookstore, a café, an exercise facility and a sauna — the latter two strictly gender-segregated — the large building bustles with activity.

Before this mosque opened in June Stockholm's Muslims had to restrict their public devotions to one of the several much smaller mosques in the region. "Islam was thought of as something covert, a religion practiced in cellars or above shops," Gillman recalls. "Now, with Islam being manifested in a much more open way, I don't feel intimidated to practice my religion."

In response to that openness, much of the local opposition that originally greeted proposals for the mosque has been replaced by acceptance and curiosity. Nora el Masri, 19, a Palestinian who has lived in Sweden most of her life, conducts occasional tours of the building and finds that most Swedes are reassured by what they see. "They thought it would be full of fundamentalists," she says, "people praying all the time."

Eva Zetterberg, a leading member of Sweden's Left Party and a deputy speaker of Parliament, has come to the mosque on a Saturday afternoon as part of her effort to learn more about the country's Muslim community. "Our population is 15% immigrants now, but only 1% or 2% of members of Parliament are immigrants," Zetterberg notes. Because most of Sweden's Muslims are also immigrants, the new mosque is a focal point for Zetterberg's ambition to get the immigrant community more involved in local affairs.

As much as Sweden's immigrants yearn for full acceptance and participation in their adopted society, they are understandably reluctant to relinquish some of the very traits that set them apart. El Masri has had to navigate between these sometimes conflicting currents. She will begin university next year and interacts easily with her many Swedish friends but is instantly distinguishable from them by her hijab, the scarf that always covers her head in public. She began wearing it when she was eight, despite her mother's protestations that she was too young to appreciate its significance. She has never regretted the decision. "I feel that people look at me with respect," she says. Stockholm's handsome and imposing new mosque serves a similar function for its congregation.