Throughout the nation the Muslims generally meet in rented halls--a Masonic Temple in one town, over a pool room in another. Men and women enter the temple together, but once in the vestibule the families are separated. Everybody is searched thoroughly and all sharp objects, to say nothing of weapons, are taken away. The search is carried out by well-trained sisters and brothers who work with the efficiency of jail guards. They assign a small paper bag to each worshiper, and such objects as nail files, pocket-knives, scissors--any sharp objects that might conceivably be used as weapons--are put into the bag for safe keeping until the parishioner leaves the temple. Even the ordeal of being searched is made palatable by a pleasant brother or sister who explains that the visitor must be relieved of all weapons because once the truth about the white man is explained, the visitor might run out and start his private Armageddon before the “word” comes. The men and women are ushered into the temple through separate doors and are ordered to sit on opposite sides. The auditorium is generally a drab room, one used by many groups in the course of a week. In Birmingham, Alabama, for example, the Black Muslims use the Masonic Hall auditorium. The Sunday I visited the services there one could see posters, fans, and other materials left by groups who had used the same hall earlier in the week. The chairs of the auditorium are arranged in rows, a wide gulf between the “brothers” side and that of the “sisters.” Dark-suited young men, members of The Fruit of Islam, patrol the floor incessantly. They dart about, nudging children to silence, awakening a slumbering brother or sister, and performing whatever duties might come to hand, all the while keeping up a rapid-fire “That’s right,” “You tell it like it is,” in response to what the minister is saying. The visitor finds himself inside a strange new world at a Black Muslim service. Many religions separate men and women during their services, but few Negroes are members of such faiths and so they are intrigued from the outset. Their sense of being in on something exotic, thus meaningful, is increased when one of the lesser ministers takes the platform and says a few words in Arabic. The Negro is told that this was his language before the white man kidnaped his father and truncated his culture. “_As-Salaam-Alaikum!_” the minister says--Peace be unto you. “_Wa-Alaikum-Salaam_,” the visitor is taught to reply--“Peace also be unto you.” The Black Muslims have little or no liturgy. They do not sing in the temple, for they have not yet developed hymns that enunciate their faith. The nearest thing I have heard to a Black Muslim hymn is a plaintive and moving song written by Minister Louis X of Boston, “The White Man’s Heaven Is the Black Man’s Hell.” It is often sung in the temples, but only as a solo by some gifted member of the congregation.