The final days of the month of fasting can, according to one tradition by the name of Iiteqaaf, be spent entirely in the mosque. Some of the ‘ulama had moved there for the final fortnight; they had hung a curtain in one corner of the mosque that kept their bags and sleeping area out of sight. They were delighted when I went to join them for the final two days. Iiteqaaf was excellent preparation for the Hajj; I experienced the reversal for the first time in which everyday life wasn’t interrupted by prayer, rather prayer was interrupted by everyday needs. And I experienced the vigilance of extreme devotion.
The first night I was woken by singsong tones. Suleiman was sitting in the mosque’s inner court and reciting in a voice louder than I was used to from the others. I sat down next to him.
‘There always has to be someone reciting,’ he explained between two suras. A little later there was a rustling round the corner and Suleiman shot me a nervous look.
‘Do you hear that? Those are the djinns, but they don’t dare approach as long as we are speaking the words of the holy Qur’an.’ And he continued his recitation.
After just one day I already felt some distance towards those who waltzed in (as it seemed to me) for the prayer, only to disappear again afterwards, at a hectic pace. We, on the other hand, formed the first row behind the imam, and although perhaps we didn’t pray more fervently, our prayer was certainly more detailed. After the communal prayer we took our time, remained seated, and addressed in silence anything that had surfaced as a worry or uncertainty. It was easy to believe we were closer to God.
To experience Ramadan – a struggle that ends in reward every day – has something heroic about it. It confirms one’s own Islamic identity (which explains why so many more Muslims adhere to the fasting than to the five prayers), it breaks the cast of the everyday, the circle of eternal sameness, and it ends with Eid al-Fitr (the great feast), complete with gifts and a banquet that makes up for all the previous privation.
All the members of Markazul Maarif had gathered in our classroom, and at the teacher’s desk stood Badrudin Qasmi – the director of the organisation which provided the framework for my teaching and learning time with the ‘ulama. Badrubhai, as he was known to one and all, was a baroque figure of gargantuan faith. He lived in self-evident devotion, which smothered any doubts in its powerful embrace. Together with his brothers who sat next to him, he headed a commercial empire called Ajmal, which had made a name internationally with its high-quality, alcohol-free and very costly perfumes.
The ‘ulama filed past him and he fed them with a piece of unleavened bread dunked in a meat sauce. After everyone had taken a symbolic bite, we ate our meal together, and Badrubhai talked non-stop about the Hajj, among other things, and how he would have the opportunity to perform it again this year, thanks be to Allah, and to his brothers who would look after the business in his absence.
And then Badrubhai turned to me and asked: ‘Have you ever been on the Hajj?’
I answered in the negative, and then without the slightest hesitation or doubt he declared: ‘You’ll come this year, with us!’
Pilgrims
Whenever I felt a painful dig in my back I knew that Nigeria was behind me.
‘Take it easy, man,’ I said to the giant from Kano whose upper body was scarcely covered by the two-meter long ihram cloth.
‘Many, many people,’ he grumbled in annoyance.
‘If you go slow, there will be no “go slow,”’ I said, punning on the Nigerian name for a traffic jam, whereupon the giant guffawed with laughter before giving me another shove that sent me flying into an Arab lady who, from within the depths of her burqu’o, shouted ‘Shwey, shwey’, another expression for the commandment relevant at this time: go with care. I was reminded of the taxi driver in Nigeria who had stepped on the gas after I begged him not to race at 140 km/h on the highway from Kaduna to Onitsha.
It was fascinating to watch the different behaviour of various pilgrims in Mecca. There was such variety that you might have supposed these people had nothing in common other than the two pieces of white cloth they wore. Even the way they wore these differentiated them from one another. The black Africans managed to look relaxed even in the ihram, thanks to their athletic build, their way of walking coupled with the fact that they used the upper cloth as a scarf sometimes, draping it around their necks with an almost dandy air. The Afghans benefited from laying aside their intimidating robes – now their regular features and bright eyes were shown to advantage. The moment they pulled on their local garments their proud bearing returned, they stood up taller, feet wide apart, two heads higher thanks to their turbans. They kissed and embraced one another in elaborate rituals – the expression of a connection that went beyond Islam. In absolute contrast to the Afghans were the Indonesians, the largest Muslim population in the world, and perhaps the friendliest, judging by their openness on the Hajj. Whether from Java or Sumatra, the Indonesians were reserved, gentle, and discreet; they were soft-spoken, and even their diminutive height seemed part of their good manners: they never blocked one’s view. They acted in as exemplary a manner as the Prophet (pbuh) could have wished.
As a rule the Hajj is performed by wealthy Muslims, creating the impression in Mecca that obesity is prevalent in Islam (the Anatolians are apparently enthralled by the kadaif and kebab). The average age is also far from representative. Usually a pilgrim must have accomplished their most important worldly duties before embarking on the Hajj. There are also suspicions that young men’s visa applications are often turned down because the Saudi authorities fear they will try to stay on as illegal workers.
Of the many brief encounters on my Hajj, the one that made the deepest impression happened on the first Friday prayer. Standing to my right was an elderly man with a bushy moustache who was carrying a travel bag with the word ‘IRAQ’ on it. There was nothing about him to suggest that he had enjoyed any privileges in life. His face spoke of life’s tough experiences; his hands and feet were rough. He was wearing plain trousers and the material of his shirt was far too thick for the heat. We greeted one another then turned to our prayers. He devoured every word of the two richly formulated sermons that trickled through the loudspeakers onto us like honey. When we had whispered, ‘Assalaamu alaikum wa rahmatullahi wa barakaatuhu’ over our shoulders, right and left, I saw that he was weeping. We embraced, as is customary in many countries after the Friday prayer, and looked at one another. I tried to smile. He turned away, my right shoulder was damp, and the greeting of peace held no promise – a few weeks later the first bombs fell on his country.
Mecca – as it was and as it is
Mecca is a town steeped in history, and yet one with no ancient buildings. Its history is not merely ignored by the prevailing teachings – it is regarded as dangerous. In an amnesia that enjoys an official stamp, believers are to pay no heed to the developments and decisions made in the 14 centuries since the Prophet (pbuh) and the Sahabah lived, but to trust only the Qur’an and ahadith, and, as a pilgrim to visit only the Kaaba – which is an artefact that goes beyond history. The desire to see the sites of the stories of the Prophet’s (pbuh) passion and revelation is regarded as destructive tourism. The Saudis have destroyed what was believed to be the birthplace of the Prophet (pbuh) and consigned the burial spot to anonymity. Even King Abdul Aziz al-Saud, founder of the kingdom, lies in an unmarked grave. In Medina, once the most visited cemetery, is a lake of slabs today, a huge, bleak area stretches out behind a high stone wall like a parade ground for all the djinns of this world.
Likewise, Mecca is a cultural centre which has been drained of its culture. Theatre and music are frowned upon, of course, but the public baths and the coffee houses have also gone – even in the Hilton only Nescafé is served. Even desserts have suffered because of this disregard for culture – I ate the most disgusting baklava I’ve ever had in my life in Mecca. In the bookshops, the great Arabian thinkers of the past, and present, are nowhere to be found: thinking is a suspicious act in and
of itself. The Arabs of Hijaz, to which the wonderful mo’allaqat poets belonged, have to contend themselves with local editions of the holy Qur’an. For the Hajj I was on, King Fahd, custodian of the two holy mosques, had distributed one million, seven hundred and seventy thousand, one hundred and sixty-eight copies of the book in 19 languages, free of charge (I received my copy at departure in Jeddah). What is unusual about this English translation are the interpretations of the text, actually a presumption with regards to one’s own understanding of the Qur’an and the resulting link to God. Moreover, the Saudi interpretation often differs considerably from the classical ones. According to all other translations I know, for example, women are asked, ‘not to show their charms, unless they are on the outside, and to hold their veils over their breasts’ (24:31). In the Saudi Arabian version, on the other hand, the first half sentence specifies (ie both eyes, to recognize the path, or the outer side of the hands…) and later the deliberately untranslated word dschuyubihinna is explained between parenthesis as: their bodies, their faces, their necks, and their breasts. And thus the wearing of the burq’o is rendered a command of God, and that is in the framework of a theology that forbids free interpretation!
The relationship of most pilgrims to the hosts of the Hajj is correspondingly ambivalent, although critical opinions are expressed with caution:
‘And if Allah were to shower his servants with abundance, they would grow arrogant on earth,’ a disgruntled Jordanian quoted from the Qur’an, having been forced to wait for hours in a local authorities’ office with me.
Pilgrims from Istanbul, Damascus and Cairo regard the Saudis as parvenus, nouveau-riche, and lacking in civilisation. And the Saudis do their utmost to live up to this assessment through their rude and coarse behaviour. Since time immemorial the inhabitants of Mecca have been called the neighbours of God while simultaneously displaying, in this centre of faith, a measure of human weakness, greed and arrogance that provokes all idealistic pilgrims.
Ibn Jubayr wrote: ‘Of all Islamic countries none is more deserving of purification by the sword of all the dirt and the spilt blood … in this country whose people do not share the honour of Islam and covet the goods of the pilgrims and suck their blood. If there are scholars of law in al-Andalus today who claim that one is no longer obliged to go on the Hajj, then this opinion is justified by the abject manner in which the pilgrims are treated, in utter contrast to the will of God.’
Like all other Hajj authors, Johann Ludwig Burckhardt had reason to complain when he wrote: ‘On the feast days he [the host] invited me to a splendid lunch in the company of half a dozen of his friends which took place in my room – and the next day he brought me the bill for the expenses of the entire meal.’ And at the khutbah I attended in Mumbai before my Hajj, and the one in Cape Town after it, believers were warned to be vigilant that they weren’t cheated on the Hajj by the muallim and others.
Deplorable incidents have a long tradition in Mecca. The town had always been a centre for the slave trade – the market in question was a stone’s throw away from the Kaaba. When the Ottoman governor of Hijaz sent a command to the regional governor of Mecca prohibiting the slave trade, Sheikh Jamal, at that time the head ‘alim of the town, issued the following fatwah: suggestions such as these have rendered the Turks infidel.
Already in pre-Islamic times there was an ingenious system for kidnappings, which as time went by wasn’t done away with but rather refined. For centuries nothing filled the Hajjis with more fear than the thought of robberies at the hands of the Bedouins between Jeddah and Mecca, or Mecca and Medina. The great caravans paid protection money to the respective leaders (a considerable sum allowed for in the Ottoman budget), but nonetheless all the accounts that I have read speak of nocturnal attacks on pilgrims who were stabbed and others who disappeared. No-one will claim that the Hijaz Arabs were unaware at any point in their history of the material advantages of their position as neighbours of the House of God.
Today, too, public life often bears a mark of hypocrisy, a particularly problematic evil, for the Prophet (pbuh) felt a deep aversion to hypocrisy. The prevailing ideology of Wahhabi Islam – a puritanical doctrine, named after the revivalist preacher Mohammed Ibn Abd al-Wahhab (1703–1792) – picks and chooses from the traditions on offer. Laws, the declaring of- and adhering to-, are shaped as the occasion dictates. During the first capture of Medina by the Wahhabis 200 years ago, the treasures of the Grand Mosque were stolen, supposedly to be shared amongst the poor, but the leader, Saud, sold parts of it to the Sharif of Mecca, retaining the lion’s share for himself. Although the Prophet’s (pbuh) commandments are meant to be followed at all times, certain ahadith are postulated as fundamental principles, while others are simply ignored. One hadith states, for example, that one should not build a house substantially bigger than one’s neighbour’s so that he does not feel humiliated, and yet the immense palace of the king in Mecca dwarves not only the neighbouring buildings but even the House of God.
Another hadith says: pay those who have worked for you before the sweat on their brow has dried. Yet Saudi Arabian employers continue to owe wages to foreign workers who come in their hundreds and thousands from the poorer regions of the Islamic World as well as from some non-Muslim countries such as the Philippines. There is also a alarming number of accusations of maltreatment. In the Philippines consulate nannies bide their time, 18 months in one case, waiting for the money owed to them for six months’ work or more, afraid to leave the country in case they lose their rights to claim it. And the high life of the Saudi elite break another very well known hadith: ‘Allah despises those who squander their wealth.’
Wahhabi Islam, referred to (no explanation required) as ‘fundamentalism’, doesn’t even correspond in its rudiments to the holistic programme of Islam. Neither the absolutist monarchy nor the totalitarian suppression of free expression can find any justification in the Qur’an. The sovereign elite keep tight control of the laws, but if it suits their interests they will also turn a blind eye. The proclaimed return to original Islam reveals itself upon closer inspection to be a manipulation of religion for the sake of retaining power and controlling the masses.
But because they keep the holy sites clean and accessible, constantly improving the infrastructure while ensuring the Hajj is less dangerous and more just, the hosts often receive a great deal of approval. When King Saud came to power in 1925, legislation on the abolition of protection money was passed for the first time in history, and there were also guarantees that the pilgrim leaders would have reduced powers, and that the Sharif would no longer hold a monopoly on the Zamzam water, which used to be a costly acquisition for the pilgrims and is now handed out free of charge. The Saudis take their role as guardians of the holy mosques and sites very seriously, and shy away from no investment that could result in a safer and more comfortable Hajj. And thus gratitude is as commonly expressed as criticism.
The 8th of Dhu al-Hijjah – The Day of Departure
The bus driver passed the microphone to an elderly man in the front row who intoned the call to pilgrimage, a call we sleepily took up.
Here I am, O’ God, at Thy Command.
It was two o’clock in the morning, and the traffic flowed past. We had waited a long time.
Be ready after dinner, we had been told. We took a bath, shaved our underarms and around our genitals. We put on our ihram again, and took a second set, two fresh pieces of cloth so that we wouldn’t have to wash during the Hajj. Then we rested.
Here I am at Thy Command, Thou art without associate;
Here I am at Thy Command.
We read yet again about the tasks ahead. We wouldn’t leave for Mina until after midnight, we were told. We smoked and napped a little.
Praise, blessings and dominion are Thine!
Shouts echoed in the stairway. We hastened downstairs and were ushered into the buses. Then we waited some more. The night was suspended, its sidelights on.
Thou art without associate.
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Just when our expectation had begun to ebb, we were on the move again. Our Labbeik intensified as we passed through satellite towns, brand new cloned habitations, the same the world over: tall, monotonous blocks with strips of shops on the ground floor. The buildings looked like grafted alien elements in a rugged desert, providing only small niches for settlements. Town planners, who seldom accept such restrictions, fostered the intention to widen the valleys and push back the mountains. We drove through a tunnel, through another suburb, tunnel, suburb, until we emerged in a valley so brightly lit that the night was extinguished.
Mina, hemmed in on both sides by steep hills of granite, consists of row upon row of identical tents, all to be filled with life tonight. For several days of the year Mina is inhabited by two million pilgrims, otherwise the village is a ghost town. The tents are equipped with air-conditioning and rugs, simple but comfortable – in earlier days the pilgrims slept on the sand or mud. I was alone to begin with in the assigned tent. After morning prayers I lay down and slept.
Later in the forenoon the door was unzipped and a voice cascaded into the tent before a strong, low-set figure entered: Badrubhai and his entourage. When he spotted me he raced over, embraced me and congratulated me on the Umrah, noted with pride that my face was glowing, it was full of nur (light – important words he uttered only in Arabic.) However, in immediate consensus with an old friend of his, I would have to grow a beard. I protested that the beard growth on my cheeks was too patchy for a beard and would just look unsightly; he dismissed that by telling me a hadith about a man who had only a single hair in his beard, which he grew nonetheless. One day he met a wise old man on the street who laughed when he saw it. The man felt slighted and so he cut the hair.
Mumbai to Mecca Page 5