Five o'clock in the morning and the 9th microdistrict of Bishkek, built in Soviet times, is still asleep; the autumn air is already cooling down after the hot summer, but the windows in the 4-storey 104-series Soviet apartment buildings are still open. Suddenly, this pristine night silence is broken by the sharp and slightly creaking sound of a microphone coming from Ata-Turk Park (formerly Friendship Park): "Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar!" These are the first lines of the azaan, the call to prayer, flying from a loudspeaker atop the minaret of the Toyiba Mosque, built in the early 2000s with funds from an Arab foundation. Dogs in the neighborhood begin to howl following the microphone. The azaan is read by Abdukadir Sheikh, a former internationalist paratrooper who fought for the Soviet Union in Afghanistan in the 1980s and has 167 parachute jumps under his belt. In his youth he may have shot at the Afghan mujahideen, but now he himself is no different from them in appearance: in long Muslim clothes and with a beard, he is proud of the way he recites azaan: loudly, chanting, with shimmers. Tynybek Baike, an elderly man in his well-deserved 60s, wakes up in his bed trying to figure out what's going on, then swears profusely, gets up to close the window and lies back down, covering his head with a blanket so he doesn't hear the end of the azaan. His neighbor, newlywed Kairat, is not so easy to wake up. His wife, Aisha, shakes him by the shoulder: "Get up, it's azaan, it's time for you to go to the mosque." They sleep on the floor, following Muslim and Kyrgyz traditions. Kairat turns over on his toshok, sits up, rubs his eyes and raising his hands, addresses Allah with dua. He then gets out of bed, makes ablution, dresses up and goes to the mosque for morning prayer. Aisha gets up immediately after Kairat and performs her morning namaz in the house.