Tuesday, December 23, 2008

Journey of hearts leads to a journey for the words to describe it; leads to the Qur'an

In the name of God, Most Merciful, Most Kind,

* * *
Writing about the Hajj has been weighing heavily upon my heart and mind.
There is so much to say, and yet, trying to capture the feelings and images associated with the convergence of what seemed like all of humanity upon a few sacred kilometers is just too much for this writer. I would likely do injustice at grasping, let alone expressing, the inner dimensions of this spiritual and very-physical journey.

Nevertheless, I shall try.

To start: Every able-bodied Muslim, who can afford to, is called upon to head to Mecca - and locations in the vicinity - at least once in his or her lifetime during a particular time of the year, in order to fulfill the fifth pillar of the faith.

God Says to Prophet Abraham, known as Ibrahim to Arabic speakers:

"And proclaim the Pilgrimage among humanity: they will come to thee on foot and (mounted) on every kind of camel, lean on account of journeys through deep and distant mountain highways . .. ." (Qur'an, Hajj, verse 27)

Around three million men, women, and children, from parts known and unknown, answered the call this year. My husband and I were grateful to be among them.

We joined the slow, especially patient, white and black checker-clad masses, moving from one location to another to places like Mina - a huge tent city of white-capped mini glaciers - Arafah, an area of encampments where pilgrims make what they hope are the most sincere supplications of their lives - Muzdalifah, a simple stretch of land where the millions lay down to sleep on hard rocks, or, specially-provided sleeping bags, under the stars, just as the Prophet Muhammad, may peace be upon him, did before heading back to Mina and then Mecca for the first day of Eid - and the climax of the pilgrimage.

Mina.

All of this to be followed by three days of remembering and glorifying God, and commemorating Prophet Ibrahim's readiness to sacrifice his son, for the sake of His Lord - the ultimate in devotion and servitude. Stoning symbolic structures representing the Evil Whisperer who tried to convince him, his wife, and son, Ismael, not to go ahead with the plan. And of course, the ritual slaughter of sheep, cows, etc., to remember how God replaced the human sacrifice with that of an animal, and commanded Muslims to share its meat with family, friends and the needy, in a rite that would go on and on. . . . . .

Throughout the six days of walking, circling, riding in air conditioned buses (while far too many poorer pilgrims sweltered in rickety trucks and convertible school buses - roofs blasted off, perhaps - or squeezed into mini-buses from Russia, full of luggage and food), I kept returning to the images described in the chapter titled "the Hajj" or "Pilgrimage" in the Quran. This chapter holds the secrets of Hajj, the essence of this journey, encapsulating the images and their deeper meanings.

It starts with this:

"O mankind! fear your Lord! for the convulsion of the Hour (of Judgment) will be a thing terrible!

The Day ye shall see it, every mother giving suck shall forget her suckling- babe, and every pregnant female shall drop her load (unformed): thou shalt see mankind as in a drunken riot, yet not drunk: but dreadful will be the Wrath of God." (Qur'an, Chapter 22, verses 1 & 2)

The crowds would assemble after the afternoon prayer to move, inch by tiny inch, along a long paved road filled to the brim with pilgrims holding each other, lovingly or out of desperation, or in formation, focused on getting to where we would throw the pebbles we had collected earlier. As we shuffled along beneath the beating rays of the sun, the endless stretch of humanity, with its roaring din, its confusion, its excitement, its resigned determination could only make one think of the Day of Judgment, and oh what a long day it will be.


But another reflection, was how much this tired, raggedy mass resembled the images of refugees that sometimes stop us and make us wonder at the sheer cruelty of those who would force people to flee their homes, their meager belongings strapped to their backs as they clutch those they love in a procession of devastation, towards uncertainty. But this is part of God's Plan. . .:

"(They are) those who have been expelled from their homes in defiance of right,- (for no cause) except that they say, "our Lord is God. . ."(Qur'an, Chapter 22, verse 40)

* * *

I awoke to the whispers of a few sisters huddled near my sleeping bag, their husbands a few sleeping bodies away here in Muzdalifah, tired from the long bus rides from Arafah where we had all spent the day in quiet prayer. (A ride that would normally take 10 minutes, took six hours on cramped buses, minds and bodies aching from hours of concentration - a workout of the heart.)

The sisters were talking quietly, of Palestine, of occupation. "They were allowed out just two days before Hajj," said one sister, her white skin glimmering in the moonlight, her black scarf melding with the sky as she thought of the Palestinian pilgrims whose hearts likely ached to be here, too. Her friend nodded, her voice soothing, her face bright, too. "Yes, maybe they are somewhere close. . . " I tried to smooth down my wrinkled and dusty abaya. I pulled at my scarf - was it still there? Around our little island of sleeping bags, men from India, Pakistan, Saudi, Indonesia, and many more places were stretched out in various states of sleep. The walls of segregation had crumbled - gender, class, culture; we were all brothers and sisters.

"Are you from Palestine?" I managed to ask, my voice still heavy with sleep. The early dawn was beginning to breathe its cold air upon the sleeping masses, and the line-ups at the public washrooms were slowly growing. Soon, the ghost-like bodies, the males still dressed in the simple white cloth they are required to wear for Hajj, were all up, rising slowly as calls to prayer soothed the awakening.


Muzdalifah. Pilgrims sleep on the hard, rocky ground after a long day of supplication. The sight of thousands of people waking up from having been lying down on the flat plain, reminds many of the scene expected to play out on the Day of Resurrection, when all of humanity will come to life, to face the Accounting; answering for their wrongs, rewarded for their good.
Both women nodded that they were originally from Palestine, but they had been exiled long ago. We couldn't help but stare in quiet admiration at the one sister whose family was still there - still defending the land, just by being alive. But I didn't see the Palestinian flags anywhere in Mina, the tent city divided up by geographic locations so that pilgrims from the various regions of the world were grouped close together. We passed by the Egyptian tents, the Indian tents, the Pakistani tents - made a quick visit to the Canadian tent, offering a salaam to a dear Ottawa sister who had come with her father - but Palestine could not be found.

"They probably didn't make it," said my husband. A news story said they got their visas late. I hope they made it. It would have been a getaway from the daily struggles that their lives have become - and, somehow, unbelievably, it could still get worse with Israel hinting at an invasion of Gaza.

Whenever pilgrims were making supplication, you knew they were begging God for Help in the occupied territories - and for everyone who is oppressed and suffering. But, somehow, all of our efforts, seemed fruitless. Like when I passed out a couple of apples to an African family, camped out in front of our luxury encampment. They had the sidewalk. Yes, they were grateful for this gesture of fraternity, but would I have invited them inside? Would anyone have let me bring them in to where showers were available, clean bathrooms with no line-ups, comfy mini-mattresses to lay our tired bodies upon, and - the ultimate in luxury Hajj-ing, in my opinion -the 24 hour coffee / cappuccino / hot chocolate, etc.etc.etc (!!) machine at our beck and call.

Mina's sidewalks were teeming with families camped out uncomfortably in tents and makeshift living quarters. Those who could afford to, stayed in luxurious tents; those who couldn't suffered a great deal to perform the Hajj.
The stark reality of the have and have-nots, of the gated communities described by various economists and social commentators that mark a world where some have much, and many more have none was on full display. Outside our comfortable tent in Mina, thousands upon thousands of people - families - were camped out on filthy sidewalks, littered with garbage and which were slowly beginning to reek of human realities (these places had glimmered with cleanliness just a few days before the crowds arrived).

To travel around the tent city, resonating with the sounds of people and sirens, one would pass by those who had traveled from far off lands, with little money and lots of optimism that somehow it wouldn't be that bad. But of course, their reward for suffering so, compared to our kushy living, would be far greater. After all, God is Just.

What is it like to be an African woman, baby tied around your back, coke bottle balanced on your head, as you march with your wildly exotic prints through crowds of richer women with mobile phones and designer sunglasses? Or a man from Dagestan, whose mother, sisters, cousins and wife stand waiting to be told what to do, eyes wide with wonder at the complexity of life - their basic, hand-made and unfashionable dresses and scarves speaking of the utter simplicity of their day-to-day far away back home? What do you say to them about the luxury shops that line the King's shopping mall right across from the Haram-e-Sharif (where the Kaaba or the Symbolic House of God is circled day and night)?

And then, as you are absorbing the push and pull of people from here, there and everywhere, moving this way and that, yearning to be close to the House of God in our final rite, it all comes to a sudden and jolting

- Stop.

Life in all its energy;
the shortage of oxygen and the abundance of carbon dioxide;
and the headiness of worship, all come together and

- Shatter.

As thousands, if not hundreds of thousands of people, move towards the Kaaba to say goodbye and end their Hajj, the soul of a child is silently lifted from its tiny body. Cradled in his father's arms, his head resting on his shoulder, only a few have noticed the water dribbling out of the mouth in an ominous trickle. In slow motion, we point to the little boy, of one or two, his eyes are fixed in a haunting stare and the father is trying to revive him with a gentle shake. Two women behind him, the mother and someone else, are crying, their tears falling on their faces in quiet distress. Not a sound comes out.


"He is dead," I tell my husband, unable to fathom what I am witnessing, now. "He isn't," my husband insists, as there isn't time to stop in this crowd that surges forward, fixated on the House. I crane to see the family, disappearing into the grief of realizing their baby had suffocated and was now gone.

The sobs came up from my chest in bursts; no one noticed. Life had just disappeared before my eyes and yet life continued in a harried, hurried, frenzied pace all around me as we ducked out of the pressing crowds, seeking refuge on the uppermost floor to circle the Kaaba from afar.

"O mankind! if ye have a doubt about the Resurrection, (consider) that We created you out of dust, then out of sperm, then out of a leech-like clot, then out of a morsel of flesh, partly formed and partly unformed, in order that We may manifest (our power) to you; and We cause whom We will to rest in the wombs for an appointed term, then do We bring you out as babes, then (foster you) that ye may reach your age of full strength; and some of you are called to die . . ." (Qur'an, Chapter 22, verse 5)



On the top floor, the sky was our canopy and I was grateful for the fresh air. I tried not to think about the little boy, but when I saw a mother whose baby's face was nestled in her headscarf, I had to motion to her to make sure her baby was breathing. My husband tapped a grandfather on the shoulder, and asked him to remove the tiny face mask on the overdressed baby crying in his arms.

Dear God.

It took close to two hours to round the widest parameters of the area overseeing the Kaaba seven times, especially as pilgrims, glad to be done with this final rite, had sat down smack at the centre of where the rest of us had to move. My husband wasn't impressed but I couldn't muster up the same indignation. Somehow, the anger that seethes inside whenever I see a sliver of injustice had completely emptied of my heart and I had no more energy to feel anything.

And then, just as the sun was setting on this fourth and final day of Eid, the call to prayer ricoched off the stunning domes that also take up too much room on the roof, and we hurried for a spot anywhere to eventually rest our heads in prostration. As we stood listening to the imam recite from the Qur'an, it was as though my heart joined with the sister next to me, and the man behind me, and the entire congregation that stood - attentive, unaware of anything else in the world but that moment in prayer - listening to these words:

"The Believers are but a single Brotherhood: So make peace and reconciliation between your two (contending) brothers; and fear Allah, that ye may receive Mercy. . .

O mankind! We created you from a single (pair) of a male and a female, and made you into nations and tribes, that ye may know each other. Verily the most honoured of you in the sight of God is the most righteous of you. And God has full knowledge and is well acquainted (with all things)". (Qur'an, Chapter 49, verse 10 & 13)

To all my brothers and sisters who were there - Hajj Mabrour - may God Accept your pilgrimage. To the dear sisters who became like true sisters to me - all because we shared a few moments of reverence for the One Who Created us - may we meet again, here & in the Hereafter. To every grieving heart - may you find repose in the knowledge that, ". . .to God we belong, and to Him is our return." (Qur' an, Chapter 2, verse 156)

And so much more. . .

(photos from BBC, Moin (Picasa), sacred destinations, princeton, daylife.com.)

3 comments:

  1. Assalaamu 'alaikum dear sister

    SubhanAllah....such a moving and amazing account of the journey of all journeys..the little boy that you witnessed brought me to tears and I have often thought that the hajj is no place for children...may Allah swt give sabr to all those families who lost a precious one and elevate the ranks of all those who returned to Allah SWT, the Almighty, the Wise.

    Duas humbly requested inshaAllah.

    Wassalaamu 'alaikum

    Saima

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  2. Jazal'Allahu Kheiran Saima for your comments. Hajj is a difficult experience - what with the crowds, the idling traffic, the illnesses that come from around the world to converge - and for children, the difficulties are magnified on account of their frailty.
    But so many parents have little choice, it seems. In our camp, there were several moms who had brought along two or three (!) children and when I told them about leaving my own little ones behind, they looked at me with envy. This is a journey we all long for, and I think that once the opportunity presents itself, one feels as though he or she cannot pass it up. El Hamdullilah, we all long for this invitation, but I do agree with you; perhaps parents should wait for when they can accept it without bringing their children in tow.
    On the flip side, I saw children ranging in age from six to 12, and masha'Allah, they were thoroughly enjoying themselves - the little boys gleaming in their white ihram, proudly holding on to their father's hands; little girls who were making friends with everyone their size -- and it was their parents' that I was more worried about!

    May Allah Taala Ease the difficulties on every Muslim, grant us strength and patience, and Guide us to make the best decisions when it comes to Serving Him.

    Wa'Salamu Allaykum
    Um Fatima

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  3. What an amazing description Um Fatima. I remember my journey well, but it was so fascinating reading yours. Each person's is different, reflecting, I think, our unique relationships with God.
    May God accept from you, your pilgrimage, your prayers and your good deeds in the real world, where the daily distractions of life usually limit our abilities to maintain a focus on the hereafter.

    Love for the sake of Allah always,

    Aisha

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