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.)

To the centre of the world, and my heart

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

Bags packed,
Delivered.
One for below my arm as I prepare for this journey,
Journeying to places of utmost significance,
for me, billions,
Symbols of Piety, Faith.
Inward journey,
Not sure what I'll find --
But it must and should be sabr --
Patience.
Looking at your heart,
the mirror is one's actions
in the crowds,
sweaty, agitated, rushed & euphoric
Desperate, grateful, hopeful
Scared.
Fearful.
Humble.
I am but a tiny speck and yet my faults loom large
as I prepare to journey
to the centre of the world
to face my heart
and make it shine.

Who's oppressed? That guy, that guy, maybe her and definitely him.

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

* * *

So, in typical angry-Western-woman fashion, I was ready to rail against the bus driver, his superiors, the passport office employees and anyone who would listen for keeping two busloads of women idling in a parking lot for over two hours on a hot day.

But, I didn't. Instead, I found it in me to calmly creep up to the front of the bus, past my ubiquitous black-clad sisters - in various states of outward modesty, depending on culture and conviction - and meekly ask the Asian-looking-Arabic-speaking driver, slumped over to the side of his seat:

"Um, what are we waiting for?"

Of course, up until then, my vista consisted of row upon row of fidgety women, some unfortunate enough to have brought along small children, for a trip to the mobile passport office that was roaming the coast for anyone who had yet to offer up their fingerprints for preservation. Oh, yeah, you couldn't leave the country or come back if you didn't.

So the wives and daughters of quasi-diplomats and other (self)-important people belonging to the organization my husband works for, were wondering just when we'd be escorted into the other side of the gender divide to complete what should have been a quick, routine job.

But that wasn't the whole picture.

"The women are going in ten at a time," replied the driver, irritated at my presence and referring to the steady trickle of ladies disembarking from the bus beside us. I barely heard him, fixated on another sight that none of us had noticed right across the sandy lot in front of us -- dozens of South-East Asian men lined up on the opposite side of the mobile trailer, waiting for their turn, just like us, but in the hot, desert sun.

A turn that would never come.

You see, no one had bothered to let these young, old and very old day labourers, drivers, security guards, what have you, know that some "VIP" women were going to be taking up an entire morning's worth of fingerprinting procedure. So they just stood and stood, watching black shadow after black shadow float up the steps into the air-conditioned sanctuary and back again, to the bus, another air-conditioned sanctuary I had mistaken for a discomfort. But by then I had realized what discomfort actually looked like.

Sweaty men, late for work, likely losing a day's pay or a few meals for themselves and their families back home in India, Bangledesh, Pakistan, etc., pressed up uncomfortably against each other, as the line seemed to crash against itself when the odd argument broke out. And there we were, cool, sort of calm-looking ladies going up and down the stairs, the only annoyance at that point being the patronizing tone of Saudi officers calling us 'mother' and 'Hajjah', and barking occasionally at a 'ya mama' moving too slowly.

"How many more women are left," asked one unusually gentle giant placidly, turning to his colleague who was identically dressed in a mild green uniform. "Fifteen," was the reply, greeted by a skeptical smile. "That's what you said at eleven." It was an hour later.

So even the guys inside didn't know that we'd take all morning, and nobody had bothered to tell the guys outside that they might not get in today, or why two busloads of women, and a bunch of other diplomat cars were sending up 'special' people ahead.

And so the obvious question is -- what does this little scene illustrate exactly -- ? The lack of respect this culture has for people who are other than Saudi/ Western / or so-called VIP? An inability to plan ahead / let others know what's going on?

What it certainly is, is another piece of evidence that it isn't every woman we need to worry about in a place like KSA - but the countless poor - women AND men - who have to rely on the mercy (or lack thereof) of those who bring them here to do work no one else is willing to do, or trained to do.

That anyone is treating them unfairly reflects poorly on a faith that promised to uphold concepts of equality, mercy, kindness and justice among all humankind. Here is a quote from Prophet Muhammad's last sermon, made during his final pilgrimage:

". . .All mankind is from Adam and Eve, an Arab has no superiority over a non-Arab nor a non-Arab has any superiority over an Arab; also a white has no superiority over black nor a black has any superiority over white except by piety and good action. Learn that every Muslim is a brother to every Muslim and that the Muslims constitute one brotherhood. "

If only this could be imprinted on every checkered head-dress sold in the Kingdom, worn only by honest-to-goodness Saudi men, or else.*

May God Help us, and Accept the pilgrimage of the millions of people heading here for Hajj in the coming weeks, no matter the colour of their skin, or the nationality listed in their passport.

*(Of course, I ask forgiveness for sweeping generalizations. There are many, many good, fair people here. But you can't help but notice the unfortunate trends.)

Badr : preserved for those who can find it

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

* * *

The small, palm tree oasis of Badr appears like a mirage amid the piles of dusty mountains framing a highway that twists as if to nowhere.


My husband triumphantly drives on.

"It's here," he says, a smile playing on his lips and I can almost feel him imagining the battle that took place over one thousand years ago between Prophet Muhammad, may peace be upon him, and his companions, against the people who had driven them out of Mecca for believing in one God.

We stop to ask directions to the sacred ground that holds the bodies of the martyrs who died in that first battle of Islam, fought in the second year after the Muslim migration to Medina. The deserted restaurant and playground speak of a time when tourists perhaps visited here, but now the history of the place has been all but snuffed out, and the few visitors who venture here have no idea where to go.

"Why aren't there anymore signs," I wonder aloud, as my girls jump up on down on the car seats, peering out the window. "Where are we going, mama?" asks the eldest, a bit drained after a day sightseeing at a port city nearby. She didn't understand why we had detoured away from the way home.

How to explain that we were going to where the Prophet, may peace be upon him, had famously challenged one of the most superior tribes of Arabia as a then insignificant but irritable thorn in their side -- and won? (Muslims, 313, & poorly equipped, against a rich army of about 1000).

I offer some simple explanation as we drive through the town of practical cement buildings, wide leafy roundabouts, and austere mosques, all complimented by a fading orange sun.

And finally, we think we've found what we are looking for. A white sign juts out of a tiny hill, circled by cars full of explorers like us who peer at the list of names of the companions who died trying to defend Islam that auspicious day in Ramadan, 2 AH --17 March, 624 AD.


But where was the battle fought?

"I'm going to ask that officer," my husband says, he stops the car on a ridge, overlooking sunken land, full of tired looking palm trees, straw and a makeshift water pump. I watch the man heave himself up from his chair, seated with a few others as if for a simple afternoon chat, and wave away my husband. He does the same to countless others who seem to be asking the same question. It's his job. My husband returns, scowling.

"I can't believe it," he says, starting the ignition as the girls hop around in the back. "What happened," they ask, as if caught up in the drama of it all. I, on the other hand, can already guess.

"He won't tell you - they don't want people to know where it is," I say, trying to fight the feelings of anger and disappointment that had threatened to shatter the peacefulness of Medina a few months earlier when we first discovered these concerted efforts to cover up information about cherished Islamic sites because of a fear that these historic places would be turned into shrines, a no-no in Islam, true, but unjustifiable when it leads to this.

Grabbing his phone, my husband starts dialing frantically. "He won't stop me," he says, his forehead creasing. We pass a map of the area, painted on a wall, and I'm reminded of the contradictory nature of the powers that be.


They'll paint me a picture to tell me that I'm near the site of an incredibly important historic site, and yet, they won't tell me where it is. Just like in Medina where garbage has buried the site of a companion's well, and they've put up a sign to tell me that the area within the fence is important historically - but not for what reason.

Then, like now, my partner-in-historic-reclamation, calls upon scholars to figure out the mysteries that should be public knowledge.

"We're here," he says into the phone, as we drive, retracing the grooves in the road as the shadows grow a bit shorter and the day starts to fall. "There is a large mosque, look behind it, near...." he takes directions and I wonder what we'll see, anyway. I imagine a stark desert scene, the same scene I often associate with anything to do with Prophetic history. How wrong I am.



Instead, I catch my breath when we finally creep onto the site where we believe the battle actually took place. Even if no one had told me that this was where it happened, I would have instantly known that it was. The palm trees gave away the secret. They were the only palm trees who appeared absolutely dead, wilted, wilted completely and so utterly compared to any other tree in the vicinity - any other tree, anywhere. They had been humbled.



As we move closer, around the pristine mosque which shielded a well perhaps the one mentioned in the story about the encampment, we came across what surely was a scene untouched.




One could almost feel the presence of the Muslims that day, waiting for the Quraish tribesmen to appear over the hill ahead, who were no doubt expecting a quick win against a poorly equipped band of renegades. But that ragtag army, according to the Quran, was supported by God, and His Angels that day, because it consisted of sincere believers in a monotheistic faith which confirmed prophets of yesteryear; among whom were Moses, Jesus and Abraham, may peace be upon them all.




Why couldn't there be a sign to tell us of the importance of this sight? Why was it only known to a few fortunate souls? The man who had told my husband where to look, his teacher, his shaykh, tried to phone up some locals to meet us and provide a guided tour that very few would ever take. He phoned us back to tell us that the authorities had turned up the heat on anyone who offered such services to us misguided folk. Indeed, a truckload of angry looking men drove by and stared at us, but thankfully drove off without incident. Nevertheless, their reach meant we wouldn't be able to get to where the martyrs were buried. So the secrets would remain secrets, to be preserved by God Alone.

"God gave you the victory at Badr , when ye were a weak force. So observe your duty to God in order that you may be thankful." [Qur'an, Chapter 3, Al-Imran, verse 123]

"O ye who believe! When you meet an army , hold firm and think of God much , that you may be successful . And obey God and His messenger , and dispute not one with another lest you falter and your strength depart from you ; but be steadfast! Lo! God is with the steadfast. [Quran, Chapter 8, the Spoils of War, verses 45-46]


For the benefit of the doubt:

Perhaps if these places did become touristic sites, their integrity would be harmed. However, it seems strange that the authorities would allow pilgrims to visit Uhud in Medina - so well-known that it is perhaps impossible to keep secret - considering the Muslims suffered a terrible defeat there. They lost that battle because some of the archers that day forgot the Prophet's instructions not to leave their positions. They couldn't resist going after the booty when the enemies initially turned back. So off they went after the spoils of war, before the battle was won, and the enemies returned and beat back the Muslims.

Or, is it more than a coincidence that we can visit Uhud and not Badr at a time when many Muslims think more of the luxuries of this world, than those promised to the God-fearing in the next life?

Goodbye Ramadan

Eid Mubarek! BBC confirms the end of Ramadan in the Kingdom, and for much of the Muslim world.

May God Accept our fasts, our prayers, and keep us on the Straight Path.

Um Fatima

p.s. Check out my other blog if you haven't seen it already....it's all about motherhood.
http://fromabovetheacaciatree.blogspot.com/

Heading down, soaring upwards

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

* * *

A tiny prune of a woman, bent over in half, moves steadily amidst a white and black throng that circulates the Kaaba, the symbolic House of God, built by Abraham and Ismael, may God be pleased with them.



Her coloured robe and long head scarf drape over a shriveled body that garners sympathetic looks from the pilgrims moving alongside her. She can't see their glances, though, as her head is a foot away from the ground, and it is a miracle that she is able to move at all, surrounded by bare shins and flowing robes.

"She is bent over today," I say to my husband, who clings to the two pieces of white cloth that every male pilgrim must wear on this lesser, optional pilgrimage to the Holy House in Mecca. "But she may be of those standing straightest on the Day of Judgement. . ."

He nods, as we think of all those who suffer from ailments only God, Allah in Arabic, could remove and which are meant to purify and bring them closer to Him.

"Certainly, We shall test you with fear, hunger, loss of wealth, lives and fruits; but give glad tidings to the patient—those who, when afflicted with calamity say, “Truly to Allah we belong, and truly to Him shall we return.” It is those who will be awarded blessings and mercy from their Lord; and it is those who are the guided ones." (Qur'an, Chapter 2, The Cow, verses 155–157)

"Hardships continue to befall a believing man and woman in their body, family, and property, until they meet Allah burdened with no sins,” said the Prophet Muhammad, in an authenticated narration. He also reportedly said: “Whenever a Muslim is afflicted by harm from sickness or other matters, Allah will drop his sins because of that, like a tree drops its leaves.” [authenticated in the Bukhari and Muslim prophetic narrations].

We move along, grateful for our blessings in health, family, life and livelihood, swept up by thousands of worshipers who circulate the black, cubic structure, draped in the history of monotheistic faith.

"And (remember) when We prepared for Abraham the place of the (holy) House, saying: Ascribe thou no thing as partner unto Me, and purify My House for those who make the round (thereof) and those who stand and those who bow and make prostration."
(The Qur'an, Ch. 22, The Hajj, verse 26)

I am relieved at not having to cover my face today, it being prohibited during acts of worship, as we move in the early morning sun whose rays build in strength with our every round. I gaze at the people around me, as I've gazed before whenever I've had the privilege of being in this protected sanctuary - Saudi families whose women are coloured in midnight black, their hands peeking out to hold those of their tiny sons and daughters dressed just like either parent; Egyptian wives and daughters, shoulder to shoulder as they whisper from prayer booklets; Indonesian and Malay groups, in quasi-uniform, arms linked, repeating Arabic words that fall clumsily off the tongues of their guides, who may or may not be totally aware of their meanings. So many people, from so many disparate backgrounds, united around one act: worship.

Then I think of God, the Creator of everything, and I lower my head, fixing my eyes on the marble ground. I ask for forgiveness, for me, my family, my friends, my community. I ask for good things, in this world and the Hereafter. I ask for God's Mercy, a Mercy that has no end.

Prophet Muhammad, may peace and blessings be upon him, reportedly said that when God ordained creation, He wrote on His Throne,

“Verily, My Mercy outstrips my Wrath.”
[authenticated in the Bukhari and Muslim prophetic narrations]

Sigh. This is what I am counting on.

* * *



When I bring my forehead down onto the cool, thick carpet in the first mosque ever built by Prophet Muhammad, "Quba" in Medina, I feel an intense, indescribable feeling of calm. It is as though all the negative energy welled up throughout various parts of my body are sucked into the ground, and when I lean back into the kneeling position to end the prayer, I am changed. It hits me: nothing really matters - except Allah - the One God, and, by extension, doing Right.

God is the Light of the heavens and the earth. The Parable of His Light is as if there were a Niche and within it a Lamp: The Lamp enclosed in Glass: The glass as it were a brilliant star: Lit from a blessed Tree, an Olive, neither of the east nor of the west, whose oil is well-nigh luminous, though fire scarce touched it: Light upon Light! God does guide whom He will to His Light: God does set forth Parables for men: And God does know all things. (Qur'an, Chapter 24, The Light, verse 35)

* * *

Back in Mecca, as part of our umrah, I've asked my husband to recite this verse as we retrace the footsteps of Prophet Abraham's wife, Hajar, who long ago ran between two hills called Safa and Marwa, searching for water. Her husband, in typical fashion, had obeyed God's Command completely, leaving his wife and baby in the desert with a few dates and water.

"Are you going to leave us in this desert where there is no one to keep us company?" Asked Hajar many times, but her husband would not look at her. "Has Allah ordered you to do so?" she finally asked.

"Yes."

"Then He will not neglect us," said Hajar and Abraham walked away until he was out of his sight. He then raised his hands and prayed: ["O our Lord! I have made some of my offspring dwell in a valley with no cultivation, by Your Sacred House, in order that they may offer prayers. So fill some hearts among men with love towards them, and provide them with fruits, so that they may give thanks."] (Qur'an, chapter 14, Abraham, verse 37)

We walked back and forth seven times in the long marble halls, built atop those two hills, as she had once done, though in less lavish surroundings. The water coolers framing the crowded pathways were put away, as almost everyone was fasting, but the miracle that happened after Hajar's desperate run remained in the periphery. Her son, Ismail, started kicking in the sand, and below his foot, water came spurting out - 'zam zam', of which the wells have flowed unabated to this day, and which would be the source of growth for one of the most significant cities in the world, raised up from desert sand, in the centre of the world.

* * *

At the radiant doorways of the Prophet's mosque in Medina, I felt slightly indignant at the sight of elderly women and children forced to look for shade after being turned away from the overflowing prayer halls into the desert's merciless heat.

And yet, some of the elderly women, bodies thick with years of feeding others and taking in the leftovers, seemed not to mind one bit, as they sat comfortably in the shadowy corners of the building, eyes lined with wrinkles as they squinted at the sights around them. Among the African women who hid colourful materials beneath the standard black gowns & the Pakistani sisters who were usually satisfied with their shalwar kameez's scarf to cover up their faces, no matter how bold in colour, & the Arab women in either rumpled house dresses or carefully matched outfits, the East European women were most striking.

Their suntanned faces were rugged, like the villages they had left behind to make this once-in-a-lifetime journey. They sat comfortably, a little bit like men, and one could almost see them working the fields with their husbands and sons, without any sense of the male/female divide that haunts life here.

As we struggled to find a place to pray in the seemingly shifting sun, these women likely wouldn't flinch at the most trying difficulty, and their men would probably count on them to remain robust as the world crumbled. And their sturdy builds, healthy skin, and resolute movements, despite years and years on this earth, were enough proof that they had never let anyone down. No need to mention the word 'feminism' with them around. They were partners with the men in their lives, just as God Had described,

"And among His signs is this, that He has created for you mates from among yourselves, that you may dwell in tranquility with them; and He has put love and mercy between you. Verily in that are signs for those who reflect."(Qur'an, Chapter 30, the Romans, verse 21)



And God is the Most Merciful. Just as the call to prayer sounded, we found a little girl seated under the shade of a wide, rainbow umbrella that had just enough room for our little ones, who we pushed underneath just as the prayer began. And so there they remained, shaded, as we stood solemnly on the most important day of the week, near to where the Prophet himself had prayed, and lived, and led - and passed away.




* * *

Another woman, thick with a life of bearing and raising children and grandchildren, starts out the seven rounds around the Kaaba with her back only slightly curved. She shuffles, though, and so does her companion, and by the final encirclement, her back is hunched over, and she is hanging on to her husband, who gently coaxes her along to finish. They clutch one another, unable to slow down too much as the crowds move forward with a flow that rarely ebbs at will.

One day, that woman might be me. My face may graze the ground, too - I am no better than anyone else to be saved from such a fate. And while I pray for a good life, and a good end, I know one thing for certain, no matter how far away the ground seems now, we will all one day be held within it.

"Say: 'Truly, my prayer and my service of sacrifice, my life and my death, are [all] for God, the Cherisher of the worlds.'” (Qur'an, Chapter 6, the Cattle, verse 162).

French toast and other luxuries

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

* * *

I shouldn't start talking about food, considering that I, and likely many of my readers, are now fasting the month of Ramadan, but oh well, you can read this after sunset if you prefer.
Some time ago, I introduced French Toast, that lovely morning breakfast treat to my daughter's picky cousins, who would usually shake their head adamantly whenever I offered any other typical dish.

"Wanna try something kind of sweet?" I asked in my broken Arabic, as the older one, 9, wandered aimlessly around our sparsely furnished apartment in Alexandria where we only stay during typically brief visits to my husband's hometown. Somehow, boredom made her more compliant and she smiled in acquiescence as she balanced my toddler on her hip.

We walked over to our narrow kitchen - huge in comparison to many other kitchens in Egypt from which the most succulent dishes in the world manage to emerge (far better than the TV dinners my brother often pops in the microwave in our spacious kitchen back in Canada).

I pulled out margarine, toast, eggs and milk, some cinnamon, and got to it. Generously pouring honey (syrup being unheard of) over the top of two slices, I sat her down in front of our makeshift table, a rectangular cardboard box that had held the refrigerator and which was a pain to keep clean.

"What do you think?" I asked her, as she gobbled up the pieces off the red & white plastic plate. "Yes, this is good," she managed to say, between mouthfuls.

Later, her other siblings showed the same gusto as they cleaned off their plates and asked for more. "How do you make it?" asked their mom, amazed at how enthusiastic her picky eaters were. Eggs and beans had obviously lost their appeal. I congratulated myself on introducing a staple in every mom's breakfast repertoire.

But when we went to pick up the ingredients together, I realized my relative found it hard to shell out five egyptian pounds (about $1.50) for a bag of toast when the same amount would buy her family enough flatbread to last a month. She never bought the expensive margarine - so I suggested oil which I knew wouldn't be the same. Despite the high costs of items I never thought twice about, she stoically went home, laden with everything I had recommended. It was only later that I realized it likely meant another weekly staple would have to be forsaken as her grocery budget had already been stretched (I hoped it wouldn't be the already tiny amount of fruits and vegetables that grace her little table that she'd have to skip this week. The Canada Food Guide seems utterly depressing in these circumstances.)

You'd think that now that we're here in Saudi, the story would be different for most families. And certainly, anyone coming back from a supermarket during this holy month can't help but wonder at the shopping carts packed near to overflowing with everything a hungry stomach could desire.



But as we drive through even the most upscale neighbourhoods, you'll find women and men - foreigners from Africa or Asia - picking through the garbage in metallic bins that are left open and make for an attractive stop for the skinny cats too. As they walk past hulking SUV's and luxury sedans,


these forlorn souls seem almost defiant as they eventually find little bags of leftover food for their families, or pile wheelbarrows with cardboard to sell somewhere for a pittance. After all, their obvious poverty is a stain on a society that is among the richest in the world. Who is to blame?

* * * * * *

"Here, Fatima, there is some new sand here," I coax my daughter away from digging in dirty, grey sand that is littered with cigarette butts, empty water bottles, juice boxes and other debris. There is fresh yellow sand under a few of the decrepit playground sets on this stretch of beach, used by the masses.


"New sand, oh I'm coming," my daughter scoops up her sand toys and rushes over. I feel relieved and wonder if this sand is a hint that someone is paying attention to the deteriorating state of the Kingdom's playgrounds - a reflection, I think, of the elite class's disregard for the rest of us. Or maybe, they just don't get around to these parts, busy in their enclosed palaces where freedom and luxury reign.

But I think that surely someone would listen, if I just wrote a letter (the Canadian's answer to everything). And so, my next mission is to find out just who to send one to, and let you know how things go.

I will give them the benefit of the doubt; I had only just finished railing about the garbage on the beach to my husband (who promptly got a headache) when a cleaner appeared and started sweeping away at the sand. He just needed some reinforcement but probably didn't have the courage to speak up - many more docile workers are waiting to take his place and collect a meager salary that seems like so much when you come from lands with so little.

It makes one feel grateful and sad at the same time.

Fade to black

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

* * *

In a nondescript bookshop full of boring old textbooks, my husband started flipping through one that caught his attention, set up on a book holder quite apart from all the rest.

As I was unfurling two ten riyal bills to pay for the paint sets my bouncy girls had pulled off the colourful shelves and handed to me for purchase, my guy motioned me over to look at the glossy pages.

The first image was of an old sandal that had belonged to the Prophet Muhammad, may peace be upon him. I leaned over, pulling my face veil up against me to widen the slit around my eyes and get a better view. It was dark black and ratty and we tried to imagine in it on the foot of a man who had led one of humanity's most amazing transformations of a region's ideology; a man who "was the only man in history who was supremely successful on both the religious and secular levels," according to historian Michael Hart who ranked Muhammad as the number one most influential person in history.

And he wore sandals.

But it wasn't the Prophet's footwear that made me stop in my tracks. It was a following image of a long beige gown, said to have been worn by the Prophet's daughter, Fatima, may God be pleased with her.

"It wasn't black, it wasn't black," I started repeating to an amused hubby who nonetheless looked around nervously. "Don't get us into trouble," he said, half joking, half serious.

"Maybe she wore it inside," I said, as I held on to my children's slippery hands as we exited the store. After all, every single woman in this land is "required" to wear black - something that bugged me to no end considering how sunny this place is. And yet, I found it in me to give the rule makers the benefit of the doubt.

For once, the man was on my side. "Actually," said hubby, "that is a gown that is worn outside."

So!

I DON'T HAVE TO WEAR BLACK!?!



Okay. Let's take a step back. I've actually gotten quite used to wearing black. And, as I alluded to before, I actually appreciate the calming effects it has on the female ego. Of course, there are many ladies who get their kicks from the diamond swirls that are woven into shiny materials, or the leopard designs that seem ready to pounce from beneath long black scarves. Not me, though. Little black dress goes big here and simplicity is the name of the game. So is equality and an abolition of visible manifestations of class. In the end, it's all black.



I'm telling you, I really don't mind it. Not only do I not have to colour coordinate every last detail of the outfit I'm wearing, but the black gowns, abayas, are probably more comfortable than pajamas (well, many young ladies are wearing pajamas under them, anyway, and why not?)

But the point is, at least now I know that it is a cultural trapping and not a religious dictate. Like the ban on women drivers (oooh, I've got news for you....but let me confirm it first . . .). Anyway, I can live with it, even embrace it, but it is so good to know that beige and any other colour (okay, neon pink is out) is perfectly fine.

As for the face veil - yes, I wear it out of choice, and because of the guys who stare - and no, I wouldn't wear it if guys didn't stare but I doubt that will ever change. So, in accordance with human nature - at least that which is not yet refined of human nature as the Quran clearly tells both men and women to "lower their gaze" - I gladly assume the non-identity that liberates me - not only from the stares of strange men, but from the jealous looks of ladies who think that white skin is more valuable than their own olive complexions. Sigh.

"The women were taking up the sanctuary of the black robe as a defense of their personality, in the same -- yet apparently contrary -- manner as Western women were disrobing in defense of their personality," observed that American lady reporter, Georgie Anne Geyer, whom I've quoted before. She was talking about Iranian women adopting the chador, a variation of the Saudi gown. Now, I have no experience with Iran, other than to say that the Iranians I've met in Mecca and Medina love my kids' curly hair, but what she says holds some truth.

I do not feel oppressed in the black, but in fact, safe in my own sanctuary -- an extension of the point that covering up means that it is only those who truly know me and love me who see me. There is a certain kind of value in that, though of course, I've given it some thought and made the concious choice to go along with it. Not everyone has that luxury.

Returning to Jeddah

In the name of God, Most Merciful, Most Kind

* * *

Utter, total desolation.

And I realize the bankruptcy of my own heart. After all, a believer should carry within them a garden of rememberence.

Instead, my feelings, this time around, are of anxiety, uncetainty, malaise. These feelings have been slowly washing over me, creeping up an otherwise clear coastline that is to be submerged.

* * *

The cartoon image of an airplane's zig zag line is about to land on the triple-circled dot that is Jeddah. The neon monitor announces our flight's progress towards King Abdul Aziz International airport in excruciating detail:

Ground speed:
295 MPH
263 MPH
220 MPH

911 metres,

0:05 minutes remaining

We circle the circles and the wheels of the plane are noisily lowered. A phone call (why is that guy's cell phone on?) interrupts the hum that steadily mutes the voices around me into one monolithic baby cry.

A nearby passenger's incessant gaze has prompted me to once again don the wide black cloth, tied around my head beneath the like-coloured scarf. His impertinent darting glances are reminiscent of the crouching Bedouin whose similar stare long ago greeted me on arrival to this Kingdom's other airport.

Just like the passenger now, the Bedouin's unabashed looks removed all doubts that remained about this contentious article of clothing that I finally tied around my head in the middle of passport control. This time, I didn't wait for the arrivals lounge and because of that scurrilous man, wished I hadn't waited until 10 minutes before touchdown to once again assume the non-identity that becomes the obsession for the "liberated" Western mind whenever thoughts of this oil kingdom occur.

And now, buddy glances over and realizes there's nothing more to see. My space is once again secure and, in my non-identity, I am wholly my own.

Too bad it has to be this way but such is the reality of certain places.

Unforgettable moments from time away

In the name of God, Most Merciful, Most Kind

* * *

Journal entry: July 25

In the middle of a shiny expanse of grass, a family is led in quiet prayer.

Around them, families of two, three, four or more come and go, as children gallop from attraction to attraction in this giant water theme park in Toronto.

Another family stands to watch this odd sight as the father in prayer whispers just loud enough for the three women behind him to hear. . .

Allahu Akbar. God is Greater.

They bend at the knees, bowing towards Mecca which seems painfully far away, both physically and spiritually, and then prostrate, foreheads nestled in the long stems of green.

Though puzzling to others, it is a sight that comforts my troubled soul, trapped between two worlds and unsure of where to go.

The other sight that soothes the heart, is that of the Beluga whales gliding through water as children press noses and hands up against the thick glass to watch. The gray mammals and their offspring circle the water tank gracefully despite their containment, which is a reminder of something Prophet Muhammad, may peace be upon him, once said:

"The world is a prison-house for a believer and Paradise for a non-believer."

The key is to live with dignity and thankfulness despite feeling as though you are under house arrest. Hope I can keep that in mind.

Setting sun

In the name of God, Most Merciful, Most Kind

* * *

The sky is resplendent in the glory of the past few moments.

Our window displays a crystal sky obviously protected by an invisible hand that pushes away gathering storm clouds that appear, disappear and re-appear over and over again.

A vision that is reflective of our internal battles, as we struggle to find 'home'.

And truly, the home is with God, the Everlasting. But how do we get to that home, and where do we set up shop in the meantime?

Living in Saudi, though for only a short while before this impromptu visit to Canada, had not necessarily brought me any closer to figuring anything out but it did serve as an opportunity to reflect on many assumptions that had almost prevented me from making the trip at all. Here is an entry from my journal on the flight back (with some later modifications).

July 17, 2008:

"It wasn't that long ago that I was taking a similar flight, in the opposite direction. Just three months separate that other journey and this one and in the process, dozens of realizations.

How was it possible that I, a person who sees herself as educated, open-minded and tolerant, had shrunk from the thought of moving to a country where I had come to believe represented the failure of modern-day Islam to participate in a global village which represented - at least theoretically and in varying degrees - thinking that had evolved inadvertently towards reflecting a traditional Islamic ethos, ie. human rights, justice, equality, fairness, honesty, consensus, consultation, scientific discovery, tolerance, etc.

After all, the mantra that Islam had once been a beacon of light to a (Western) world which had been shrouded in the dark ages way back when, has become stale, no matter how true it remains. And of course, with the media constantly telling me how backward everything to do with Islam has become, it is perhaps no wonder that I saw in Saudi Arabia all that was wrong with the global Muslim community, termed the 'Ummah'.

Moving through the marble expanse of a typical sparkling shopping mall in Jeddah, I would permit myself a chuckle at the common cartoon of a woman dressed in black being warned of letting her long gown, abaya, get caught in the escalator. It was slowly dawning on me that living life differently from the West did not necessarily mean that life would be completely hopeless.




Besides, it is not that Saudi Arabia had chosen not to participate in the world -- on the contrary, inter-faith discussions were held in Mecca in June, not insignificant as Mecca is the symbolic heart of the faith. Not to mention the King's overtures towards representatives of a flurry of faiths during a specially convened conference in Madrid, Spain in July.

But from the very beginning, I refused to see anything positive emanating from the desert land (except the Holy places, of course) because dark, monolithic shadows haunted my mind. The shadows of those shrouded women who were indistinguishable from one another in their black flowing robes brought out the amateur, radical feminist inside me and threatened to destroy any moment of wait . . . that moment before passing judgment, allowing the senses to absorb all that assails it and calmly, with dignity, intellectualize and even appreciate God's magnificent plan:

"O humankind! We have created you from a male and a female, and made you into nations and tribes, that you may know one another. Verily, the most honourable of you with Gos is that (believer) who has strong faith. Verily, God is All-Knowing, All-Aware." [Quran, 49:13]

. . . more on that to come.

On holiday: Searching for identity from East to West

In the name of God, Most Merciful, Most Kind

The rock'n'roll blasts out of the cheap(er) Chinese cars which have invaded Egyptian roads that shine metallic day and night; Roads that twist around crumbling buildings built too close because no one wants to lose a dime's profit.

Or sometimes it's the needy voice of a hearthrob who can't spend another day without his darling -- forever named 'habibi' -- that blares out of raspy radios or brand-new CD players that are carried off by the driver to avoid theft . "Everyone is in love or in want of love," remarked one visitor to Egypt, reported a friend. True, I'm told that my grandfather long ago warned that the emergence of one of the 'greatest' Egyptian singers of all time about fifty years ago would mark the beginning of major decline in the country's morals. Can we pin it all on one man who probably sang more songs about love and loss and desire than all the Sinatras of the world combined? Maybe. But that was decades ago; who's the scapegoat now?

With ubiquitous Internet and Satellite programming, it can't be just one man, or a few people who should or could be blamed for the brainwashing of a nation, as we wonder what on earth "they" are selling to young people. Even before the plethora of choices - too often Western - Egyptian TV offered a steady stream of 'junk' - as Sheikh Hamza Yusuf so bluntly stated in one of his typically lucid talks. Hey, it was Knots Landing every night at 8 o'clock for me and my female relatives during summer vacation in Cairo for years. I remember the character's voices echoing from open windows and balconies on eerily quiet streets when the show was on. If that isn't junk, I don't know what is. And now, so many more choices of the same.

But with all the choices - including some decent Islamic programming - there is no excuse for the miserable state of mimicry Muslims have chosen for themselves. Even our hijabs are not what they are supposed to be -- which made me cloak myself within my black Saudi abaya even when I didn't have to as a statement of defiance. What's the point in "concealing my beauty" if my choice of headscarf is dependent on the colour of my chic hotpants and matching top? Excuse me? Modesty, anyone?

"When we returned from Hajj, we all wanted to wear those abayas," confided my cousin, a strikingly beautiful woman whose wardrobe could compare with the most dazzling socialite, albeit with long sleeves and long skirts or pants. "But. . ." she trailed off. Yes. I know. But.

Everyone in Egypt is as fashion conscious now as they were when the Brits were in charge, and today they're independent. Sort of. Now it's Western corporations who are running the world - peddling consumerism that is alien to cultures rapidly losing their individuality - and they don't have to occupy us by force. Instead they use thought control to take what they want- and we give it to them, foolishly buying into the false sense of value and achievement sold to anyone with a few dollars to spare.

So when did Muslims cease yearning for Jannah (paradise), fixing their sights instead on the 'Promised Land' of all that is Western?

If the West is arrogant, it is because we made them so; where is our own identity?

* * *

Billboards on the road from Cairo to Alexandria seduce the country's new rich - a tiny, wily fraction of a population that is otherwise fighting at the windows for subsidized bread. A blonde woman, her muscle man & two picture perfect children smile at the camera, framed by a verdant expanse and a two-story villa.

Just one more 'dream' neighbourhood being built on the outskirts of the dusty, deteriorating capital.

Rickety trucks careen by these signs, likely missing the first couple such ads as they barrel their way forward, making other drivers sweat at the close calls. But after awhile, it must seem odd that among fields begging to be cultivated by calloused hands that are too tired and whose young inheritors are too disillusioned by life far from the one shown on TV, that such an ad would be commonplace.

Who can afford this? Who?

Me and you.

* * *

We pull up to my parent's home in Canada and there is no blonde woman. The kids are not perfectly kept and my husband is not a muscle man. But the image is almost the same as the one I scorn back in Egypt. A perfect lawn. A two-story house. A car or two in the driveway and a myriad of toys inside. I am grateful. I am humbled. I am embarrassed. Do I look down on the Muslim adoption of Western ways because it already comes naturally to me? I have nothing to prove. I am one of them. I am one of you. And I am a Muslim. In fact, it is partly because I lived in the West and enjoyed its freedoms, its respect for difference and individuality and free thought that I came to the conclusion that Islam was right for me. So . . .

A modern-day global village kind of quandary.

Why don't Muslims admire and copy what is so good in the West and which all should appreciate - democracy, freedom, rule of law, ethics, honesty, equality (principals completely Islamic in nature, and in some cases, introduced or re-introduced by the faith) AND offer their own valuable traditions - respect for the family, dignity of women and community, awe of God, the Most Gracious? And in another peculiar twist, many of those who lobby for a return to the true aspirations of Islam are jailed for their trouble, with the complicity of Western actors.

Can it get anymore complex?

Perhaps it was easier when when we could blame a lone singer who loved a little too much.

July 8 Journal entry: time away

In the name of God, most Merciful. most Kind.

* * *

Alexandria, I've returned.

Your embrace is quick and careless, busy with others who have swarmed you. What little time you have for an old friend.

Pushing here and there to entertain guests from across the country, and the sea, and some from beyond that.

But I am satisfied with the caressing breeze you pass my way when you have a moment and which is rejuvenating after the darkened, stale air of air-conditioned sanctuaries.

Your balconies open onto life; where soothing voices of men who sound like old-style Quranic recitors mingle with the clanging of dishes, the yells of boys and incessant calls of street vendors on donkey carts down below. You are "Life" with the volume turned way up.

"Mama, if you are too comfortable, you will never get up," my five-year-old whispers in my ear, quite sensibly, as I lay motionless on the thin mattress.

Whispered to someone who rarely likes to stop moving, who usually scorns sleep and rest, preferring the satisfying fulfillment of intellectual or physical exertion. But with you, naps are irresistible, especially on a hot day, in a cool and shaded room with the sound of a twittering bird floating down through the window.

Too bad living here is otherwise so tough.

Finding contentment in the most unlikely places

Bismillah Al Rahman Al Rahim,
In the name of God, Most Merciful, Most Kind.

*********************************************************

Thursday night, Joumjoum mall, in a place you might need to visit if you ever chance to be there.

Seated at the gate of the small, watery kingdom, the bright-eyed woman wastes no time. After giving me and my daughter a big smile, welcoming us into the white-tiled space, she leaps up from the plastic seat she's occupied for just a few minutes and starts mopping up the water dripping off the counters with a vigour that is admirable.

"You from Syria/Palestine/ Jordan?" she asks in confident Arabic, dropping the names of neighbouring countries in quick succession as she peers at my white skin, now apparent after the niqab is brought down. Her own brown skin, nose ring, shiny black hair speak of Pakistan to me. To that guess, she corrects me.

"No, India!" she smiles happily, still mopping up.

She scowls for an instant at the young girl standing guard at the only stall, pointing to the line-up that is forming under white fluroscent lights. "She just went in," replies the thin girl, a black abaya draped over a neon green shirt and a pair of jeans.

Sunshine again floods the woman's face as she bustles about. Opening a large cabinet with flourish, she hands out what I have come to covet whenever entering such spaces -- tissue paper.

When the door emerges, she swoops in front of the woman who is about to enter, clucking: "wait, wait". She sprays the seat with the trusty nozzle attached to a tube emerging form the wall that should be standard in every such location in the world. The floor is mopped again, and the waiting entrant is finally allowed an audience in the Royal Court.

It is half an hour before my daughter and me emerge from this space. Confined though it is, the Indian woman's happiness is contagious.

"How many children?" she had asked, pointing to Fatima who was playing with me in the mirror. "Two, " I reply. "Yes, I, two boys." she beams.

"I, very happy. Good company," she says, motioning to something atop the pocket of her pale blue shirt, left untucked over black, generous pants.

"How old are your children," I ask, but she thinks I want to know how long she's worked here.

"Six years. Yes, very happy, thanks to God, thanks to God," she laughs, looking upwards several times, as she tucks her black curls beneath the black headscarf loosely tied around her head.

She shakes her head firmly, smile still on her bright face, when I try to offer her money as a way to thank her for cheering up a standard visit, where people in her place usually remain seated as they watch the ladies and children go by, only sometimes offering a tip on the best stall to try, or grudgingly offering some tissue paper and yet who still seem miffed if you don't offer them a tip in return for their "help".

I press the bills into her hand, glad to offer a small reward to this contented soul in a land where people are usually quick to complain - even us.

"Oh, masha'Allah," she beams again at me. "Thanks to God."

The Prophet's City, Part II

The oasis slowly appears and you are in Medina without even realizing it. White square dwellings increase on the way, blending with the earth; a welcome sight to the kids who are tired of being in the car.


"Medina!"




Underwhelmed and yet full of wonder at a city that appears too small for its colossal significance as the springboard which allowed the faith to launch over vast territories for the past 1400 years. Nothing to allude to that here as the date trees which fill rocky roadsides thicken and the city itself humbly rises up from the dust.


This is the place where an illiterate man, arriving on a camel with little more than the clothing on his back and a loyal companion by his side, would come to transform its inhabitants into the vanguard of a faith that is now followed by over one billion people around the world and which helped humanity reach lofty heights in the sciences, mathematics, literature, poetry and the arts.

And the atmosphere
is one of
total,
utter
humility and peace.

It is like visiting a host who is shy that you should see the richness surrounding him and yet who is naturally gracious, sharing the blessings in sincere gratefulness to his Benefactor.



* * *

"Tal'aa al badru Allayna. . . ." sang the jubilant inhabitants of Yathrib as they greeted him that day [Friday, 12 Rabi' Al Awwal; 24 September, 622 CE ] on the outskirts of the city as they emerged for the first time.

"Oh the white moon has risen over us...."