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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?
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/
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).
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.
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.
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.
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.
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