Women cover up for their visit to the King Hussein mosque.

It was Friday, our first full day in Amman, Jordan. Sleep deprived from  having arrived only a few    hours earlier in the wee hours of the morning, we were on our way to the King Hussein mosque for      a traditional Friday Juma service.

Professor Goldman had spoken to us in advance about dressing modestly to show respect for the house of worship to which we were headed. The men were told to wear pants and nice shirts,       while we women were advised to wear long skirts and long-sleeved shirts. For me, that was hardly a departure from my usual mode of dress. As an Orthodox Jew, I adhere to a fairly rigid dress code    in terms of modesty. I always wear skirts that fall below the knee, and shirts that reach my collar bone and cover my elbows. So I figured I would have no problem fitting in, and I pretty much wore my regular clothes –– a black pleated skirt that went to mid-calf, and a long sleeved white shirt with a purple sweater layered on top. The one addition to my outfit was a head covering, a multi-colored striped scarf that I had purchased the day before in the Istanbul Bazaar during our short stopover in Turkey. Before we got off the bus, our classmate, Sanaz, helped all the women secure their scarves properly to guarantee minimum hair visibility.

But as we stood in the large courtyard of the mosque, already feeling slightly self-conscious in our scarves, we were each handed a set of white clothes to put on, which seemed to be the visitors’ apparel. Apparently, we were not dressed modestly enough. So we pulled on long cotton skirts, which went way past our ankles, and tugged the shirts on over our heads. I actually felt like a nun, as I struggled to adjust my new garb, a white shapeless top that had a hole barely big enough for my face to peek out, ensuring that no strands of hair could escape.

We all looked and felt kind of ridiculous, as none of us cover our hair, or that much of our bodies, on a regular basis. But at the same time, there was something beautiful about the image of us fresh-faced journalists wearing these costumes –- which is what they felt like to me –– as part of our Middle Eastern adventure. We couldn’t help but laugh as we took picture after picture to preserve the memories. I remember thinking: “What‘s a nice Jewish girl from Brooklyn doing in Amman, about to enter a mosque, and dressed like a Muslim?” And another thought that came to me at the time, and which I later shared with family and friends, was “And I thought I knew how to dress modestly…” This was certainly taking things to a new level.

In Orthodox Judaism, many married women take upon themselves the obligation of hair covering, whether it’s with a scarf, hat, or wig. So that concept wasn’t foreign to me at all; however, as a single woman, it was the first time I had actually done so, beyond trying on my married sister’s scarves on a few occasions. But even by Orthodox standards, this was a bit over the top.

When I came home and proudly showed off my pictures, there were mixed reactions –– from “I love it,” to “you look ridiculous,” to “what were you doing” and “did it feel weird?,” I patiently explained where I had been and why I had been dressed that way. When I thought about it afterward, I realized that it hadn’t been all that weird, and I had actually enjoyed the experience, to a degree. It was very familiar to me, and something I could easily relate to from my traditional Jewish upbringing, although a bit more radical than what I was used to.

There is something nice about women being dressed alike, wearing only simple white clothes, without the pressure to dress fashionably and to fit in. The focus automatically shifts away from superficial judgments based on external appearances, as everyone is forced to concentrate on something beyond the mundane. I cannot think of a more appropriate place to dress in this manner than in a house of worship, where the only conversations taking place should be between the worshippers and God, and where there is an inherent feeling of holiness.

I believe Judaism and Islam are quite similar in this regard when it comes to modesty for women, especially in a house of prayer. Married women are also required to dress modestly and cover their hair when praying in an Orthodox synagogue, even if they don’t do so the rest of the time.

But even though I did enjoy that small taste of Islamic culture, and I would certainly do it again if a similar opportunity arose, I was somewhat relieved, several hot and uncomfortable hours later, when we were able to remove our garb (though it was ours to keep) on the steps outside the mosque.

Religious cross-dressing is a term coined by our professor, Gershom Gorenberg, and this had certainly been one of those times, in the most literal sense. As I peeled off the added layers, I felt like I was removing an extra burden, both physical and spiritual, from my body. For me, my long pleated skirt, stockings, and long sleeves felt just right. I was happy to be back to my “Jewish” clothes, and I found myself looking forward to sundown that evening, when the Sabbath would begin and I could mark it with my own Jewish traditions in this very Muslim city.