When he met the wise man again, some time later, the older man asked sadly: ‘What have you done with your beard?’
‘But you laughed at me,’ the man said.
‘What a misunderstanding,’ the wise man lamented, ‘I was laughing with happiness because I was imagining angels twirling on your single hair.’
Badrubhai laughed himself, louder than the wise man of his story and told me to sit down; he spread his entourage round the tent, shouted something to his family (the women and children were separated from us by a partition) and ordered a chicken curry. In his behaviour, sweeping and warm, he was both generous and domineering at once. He wasn’t one to scrimp on words or gestures. It was reassuring that he bowed down to God on a regular basis.
He’d been here for the first time in 1977, he told me over the meal.
‘Had anything changed?’
‘Everything has changed. Back then it had been the Mecca of old, the old crumbling houses, there was no running water, and the pilgrimage was really tough, a test, not like today, Alhamdulillah, today everything is very easy. It was a different Hajj back then. In Mina too, everything has improved, Alhamdulillah. Today it is much safer. Some years back there was a big fire, here in the Indian part, the fire raged for hours, hundreds of people died, it was thought a tarpaulin had caught fire and the tents back then burned like straw. It was bad; afterwards the Saudis had to reconstruct everything from scratch, organise everything again, Mashallah, all that they did for us, how much more comfortable they have made it! I can vouch for it – almost too comfortable.’
The valley was scored with wide highways, bridges, flyovers and pedestrian zones. Apart from the immense Kaif Mosque, the modern slaughterhouse and some apartment complexes which rose up from one of the hills, every free metre was taken up by tents – uniformly white tents. All Hajjis were given the same accommodation, at least all those allotted a place in a tent. Badrubhai, the millionaire, slept on a sheet next to me, he ate what we all ate (Indian curries, cooked in enormous pots).
The grey of the asphalt matched the grey of the mountains. It was the national flags at the edge of the tented area that introduced a splash of colour to the whole. If the standard clothing and accommodation were an expression of the equality of all believers and the unity within the Ummah, the flags symbolised the concept of nation – a contradiction to the traditional idea of the Caliphate according to which Muslims of different origins and languages are one. It was no coincidence that the Turkish flag, symbol of the radical breaking-away from the political order of the Caliphate, introduced at the beginning of the 20th century under the secular leadership of Kemal Atatürk, dominated visually.
‘Brother Ilias, wait!’ someone called. ‘I have heard about you. I really wanted to meet you. Someone from my own continent at last!’
A bony man about my age stood in front of me and introduced himself, in English, as Arif.
‘And which continent might that be?’ I asked.
He looked uncertain. ‘You’re from Germany, aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘sort of.’
‘Well, then, Europe, I meant. I’m from England, born and grew up there.’
Before he had finished this sentence his accent gave him away.
‘How is life in Blackpool?’ I asked.
‘Lots of fitna, brother, lots of fitna’ (fitna being dissention; it describes a lack of morals which caused the Prophet (pbuh) to reproach the believers.)
‘What precisely?’ I asked.
‘Well, you know: women in short skirts and see-through tops. It is not easy being Muslim there.’
Arif was obviously frustrated and it seemed that the concentrated and omnipresent faith on the Hajj had rather intensified his frustration. At home he spent the whole day behind the counter of the family shop; beyond work, he barricaded himself behind an idea of a righteous life that was hard to achieve in reality. It was difficult following all the commandments of Islam in Blackpool – a dose of self-discipline cannot replace the communal experience. There are Islamic scholars of law who have refused a life among a Christian majority for this reason. Ibn Jubayr wallowed in compassion, anger and grief for the fate of his brothers and sisters in the Levant who in his day had suffered under the dominance of the Crusaders.
‘We must look within ourselves for where the blame for the weakness of Muslims at home lies,’ Arif continued. ‘We are not living properly as Muslims, brother, we are not strong enough in our convictions of faith. If we set an example we could make Islam strong again and bring it to Europe. The West has a lot, but it is lacking inner strength. But we are weak unfortunately, far too weak. When the Sahabah came to China, they did nothing more than live Islam. They were the most honest traders in the market, they sold their clean rice for the same price that others sold soiled rice. Those in competition complained to the king and Muslims were forbidden to trade at the bazaar. But then the people protested, and the prohibition was rescinded. Today there are how many Muslims in China … 20 million? Those are the descendants, the fruit of that example.’
Arif dreamed of returning home to India (he said ‘returning home’ even though he’d been born in England), as soon as his children had grown up, and could stand on their own two feet. But he had no answer to my question of whether it was easier to lead a pure Islamic life in Gujurat where his family was from. Sure, there would be more like-minded people around, and the distance to the mosque would be shorter, the call of the muezzin louder, shopping less tricky, but would his longing be fulfilled by this alone?
Again the time between the prayers was a vague stop-gap only partially bridged by performing everyday chores. In the late afternoon I climbed one of the hills around Mina. Some pilgrims had pitched their tents on the slopes and anchored them in place with heavy stones. Some of them were camping in the open, it seemed. They were sitting silently by their bundles of belongings. Solitary figures stood on the flat ledges, upright and taut as watchmen. Sunset was drawing nearer. When the azaan rang out from the Kaif Mosque, the figures prepared themselves for prayer, above them wisps of fiery cloud, the final edge of a fading day. The voice of the leader of the prayers echoed through the valley but we, praying in our makeshift location of a ledge or terrace, followed our own rhythm – isolated seekers who had distanced themselves from the community.
In the central currents of Islam there is no place for hermits, for solitary figures, for a life lived with one’s back to the world, neither monasteries nor monks are catered for in an Islamic context. As the valley of Mina symbolises, Islam is the attempt to build a social order in which the community upholds the word of God and leads a spiritually truthful life in the midst of the throng, among an overflow of people.
The 9th of Dhu al-Hijjah – The Day of Attestation
‘Today is the day that really matters!’
Who could resist that wake-up call?
‘Spend the whole day in prayer; your prayers go directly to God. And pray for me, brother!’
Everyone and everything made for Mount Arafat. Buses and trucks gathered on bridges together like brooding clouds. It was the hottest day of the Hajj, and the biggest traffic jam of humanity was happening right there in the middle of the Arabian Desert.
The cleaning brigade, in rows and columns, was out in force to see us off. The men were from Pakistan and India, and were dressed in orange. In front of them a Saudi in a long white robe gesticulated, explaining how they were to clean the camp and divided the cleaning commando into teams, while millions penetrated deeper into the desert, to purge themselves.
We really should have set off after sunrise, after ishraq, but we had to wait for our bus well into the morning. I sat up on the roof with the other younger men. It took us two hours to travel the 15 kilometres – many pilgrims complete this stretch on foot. The traffic barely progressed along the ring road with its multiple lanes that ascend Mount Arafat. In front of us a jeep was crawling along, its boot open and piled high with cartons. Three men
were busy distributing the contents among the pilgrims. They threw several packages up to us – we tore them open and found oranges, croissants and bottles of water. We tried to share out the oranges by aiming them at buses further away, but some of the oranges fell short of their target, landing between buses and rolling into the desert. We passed the croissants and the plastic bottles of mineral water down to the women and older men below, then shared the rest among ourselves. There’s a lot that hasn’t changed that much in the Hajj over the years. Ibn Battuta described back in the 14th century how his caravan was accompanied by several camels, loaded with water, food and medicine for the poorest pilgrims.
The sun was high above us like an executioner, punishing our shaved heads. On all sides of the hill a single, densely populated camp stretched out where most of the pilgrims did penance – only a minority would find space on the mountain itself. The pilgrims sat in tents, hands held in front of their faces, or stood on paths and open spaces facing Mount Arafat, spared neither the sun nor their own rigorous confession.
On this mountain, this ‘volcanic negative of the heavenly garden’, the parents of mankind, Adam and Hauwa (Eve), after they had been driven out of paradise, find each other again after 100 years of separation – Arafat means ‘recognition’. In Islam both bear equal guilt for their greed for the forbidden fruit, and it is at this place that God forgave them both. When the social position of women, as reflected in the spirit of original Islam, is moulded to fit present-day demands, this equality in fault and in forgiveness could play a significant role.
When we reached our campsite, Badrubhai invited me to join him for a chicken biryani. It was lightly seasoned, and the grains of rice slipped off the chicken legs.
‘Have some more,’ Badrubhai said, ‘you’ll be needing your strength.’
After the meal everyone was left to their confession, their own honest reckonings. There was heat even in the shade; we sat cross-legged and sweated like nervous novices. Some pilgrims whispered; others moved their lips silently. Pondering my grave faults I put together a catalogue of intentions, which I then mentally corrected, expanded upon and finally modestly cut, because I knew this wasn’t the place for frivolous plans with a short lifespan. All around me people had directed their attention inward – it was absolutely quiet during this time, the contemplation of the many.
The afternoon prayers signalled a change. After ‘asr everyone stood up, and an elderly man was invited to speak the prayer into a loudspeaker – his voice rose in volume and intensity until everyone was close to tears and many were sobbing – a prayer that reminded us of Adam and Hauwa, named the foibles of mankind and asked God for mercy. Tears were an important expression of remorse and deeply felt sentiment. Tears helped one enter Paradise. Adam prayed on this spot for months and wept so many tears that a pool formed where the birds came to drink.
The wailing voices – the amplified leaders of the prayers – rang out from every direction. What began as a gentle kindling grew to ardent fervour. The more fiery the late afternoon sky became, the more intense our pleading. Not one of the two million people was distant from the prayers at this hour. We used the time, every last minute before the sun went down, to plead for forgiveness, to pray for the fear of God, for an easy death, for a positive report on the Day of Judgement, and for the fulfilment of prayers for as long as we lived.
With the onset of sunset, congratulations rang out: Hajj Mubarak … Hajj Mabruk. The Hajj is considered complete at the end of this day. Our sins were forgiven, we were like new-born babies, and from this moment on we could refer to ourselves as Hajjis. There was a pride and contentment, as far as could be conveyed in our state of exhaustion, as though we had been freed of some great weight.
Scarcely had the sun disappeared when the camp of emotional penitents was transformed into a beehive. Each of us on a quest for our bus. They were loaded up, boarded, or in our case it was up the ladder to the roof. A stinking haze of fumes – the drivers of hundreds and thousands of vehicles turned their motors on so that their passengers could enjoy the air-conditioning. Hajjis spluttered as they made their way through the buses.
I found a space next to a doctor, also called Ilias, and his 10-year-old son, who soon crept under his father’s ihram. We congratulated one another, beamed at one another; he took his mobile phone out of his small bag and telephoned his family in Mumbai excitedly.
The 10th of Dhu-al-Hijjah – The Day of the Sacrifice
When the sun has dipped from view, Mohammad Nasiruddin al-Albani writes in his Hajj guide, pilgrims are to leave Arafat for Muzdalifah, a village near Mina where they are to spend the night until the first prayer, peacefully, full of composure. They should be especially courteous and not push or jostle.
We sprawled on the roof, conversed light-heartedly, and laughed a lot; we were relaxed, but there was a crazy blaring of horns around us that didn’t let up for a long time. The Saudi Arabian bus drivers obviously didn’t read their al-Albani. We had a good view from the roof. The mood was collectively euphoric, the wives and mothers of the men around me passed up tasty snacks, which we shared, chatting. One of the young men had married recently. It was a custom in his family, as in many others, for the new bride to perform the Hajj with her mother-in-law, and to take along one of her younger siblings along. He admitted to me that he didn’t always pray all five prayers back home.
‘But here,’ he said, ‘everything is different.’
A few hours later none of the buses around us had budged – we stretched out to sleep, our ihram providing inadequate protection against the creeping cold. I was awoken by the air-stream – a gorge, craters, and around us a motorised exodus. The highway with its 10 lanes (perhaps even 12) moved like a nightmare through the archaic landscape. Soon the air-stream dropped, and we chanted the Labbeik in the rush-hour traffic.
Around midnight we stopped at a junction and the bus driver told us to get out. In front of us was the tented town of Mina. Where was Muzdalifah? One of the Hajjis explained to me that Muzdalifah had merged with the great tented city. The hordes of pilgrims had turned the two villages into a single inhabited area. We slid down the slope and over the scattered, shrouded bodies of the sleeping, to the nearest wash station; afterwards we assembled on the asphalt for prayers. We would have blocked the entire lane (and the vehicles wouldn’t have been permitted to interrupt our prayer), had it not been for a policeman who hurried over and directed us back to the left side. The evening and night prayers were held together for once. However, there was some confusion among the older ones in our group about the appropriate number of iqamats and raq‘at.
When I checked in one of the books later I discovered we had made a mistake. No wonder. The complexity of the rites is legendary: everyone expects to make mistakes. When Mullah Ali Qari, author of the most famous guide to the Hajj, discovered that he was making an obvious mistake himself on one of his pilgrimages, another pilgrim gave him the helpful advice that if he wasn’t sure of a detail, he could always turn to Mullah Ali Qari.
After the prayers the women in our group lay down on mats at the side of the road to sleep, while the men set off to gather stones for the traditional stoning; I picked up my bag, not inclined to spend the night at a highway exit on the day of the climax of the Hajj.
This is the night that the Hajj comes up against a logistical barrier: pilgrims are meant to stay in Muzdalifah, only returning to Mina after morning prayers. However, Muzdalifah is just a space between highway junctions, a fictitious demarcation, marked only by a board in a pedestrian zone. Some tents are in Muzdalifah, but others are in Mina; thus some pilgrims camp in their own tents without committing an error in their rites, while others have to curl up somewhere on the sand or asphalt and await the call to prayer there. However easy the Hajj may have become in many respects, the night between Muzdalifah and Mina is a guaranteed nuisance.
Late at night there was no room left in Muzdalifah and lots of the pilgrims solved the problem by choosing to disreg
ard the rules. A wave of people made for Mina. I looked for the 49 small stones on the slopes I would need for the symbolic stoning of the devil, but they were hard to find. When there are two million pilgrims even stones become a rarity in the stony desert. They needed to be small enough not to cause anyone pain, but big enough to reach a target five to ten metres away. I opted for stones that might be too small rather than ones that were too big.
Eventually, I slid down the slope and joined the crowd. We pushed on silently in the cold, a convoy wading through a lagoon of sleep. Many Hajjis slipped, plenty pushed or stepped on those stretched out on either side. It was the old story – the state of purity was hard to keep up. When I paused some time for tea – the Somali with his thermos flask was surrounded by shrouded figures – I asked the time. It was already three o’clock, and not worth looking for a place to sleep.
By the time I had reached the tented city of Mina it was nearly four and I was hungry. The supermarket was open. In one corner oriental sweets were piled high. I bought a generous slice of baklava, orange juice and buttermilk, and sat down on the steps to observe the impatient scurrying through the illuminated night to the stoning ahead of time. I had a grim foreboding.
The Day of Arafat, wise men say, is the most bitter day for Satan. Maybe that’s true. But Satan is back in the game the next day: boisterous behaviour must be one of his favourite sins in Mina.
The feast day of Eid al-Adha, celebrated in the whole Islamic world, is one important day in a series of momentous days during the Hajj in which the pilgrim is obliged to sacrifice an animal and to stone a pillar – two rituals that go back to a shared original story. God commanded Ibrahim to sacrifice one of his sons – according to the Old Testament it was the younger Isaac (Ishaq), while the Qur’an upholds it was Ismail, the elder. On the way to the sacrificial site Ismail is thrice tempted by the devil not to heed his father, to resist him, and each time Ismail drives the devil away with carefully aimed stones. Later when the unconditional obedience of Ibrahim is acknowledged, he is permitted to sacrifice a ram, which was a gift from God, instead of his son. The Adha, the sacrificial aspect of the tradition, is expected of all Muslims on that day, but only the Hajjis re-enact the stoning (jamarat).
Mumbai to Mecca Page 6