‘When you go to the jamarat now,’ Badrubhai warned me in the tent, ‘you’ll see what an easy time of it Satan has. People behave worse than he could ever hope. Their whole behaviour contradicts the spirit of Islam.’
At quarter past ten in the morning, the newspaper reports confirmed the rumour – 22 pilgrims were trampled to death on one of the bridges leading to the pillar of the devil. At quarter to ten I was standing near the Great Column thinking: so this is how it feels to be crushed. I no longer knew where my body ended and the masses began, and much like everyone else around me, I started to panic. I wanted to thrash wildly, but something – a shred of decency or a sudden paralysis – prevented me. I could hardly take in the people around me; I only knew that every brother and every sister was my mortal enemy and my only support.
I set off almost immediately after hearing Badrubhai’s warning. The police had managed to channel the wave of people but the Hajjis started to push fiercely as soon as they caught sight of the pillar. The closer we got, the more the crowds pitched like a rolling ship. Cries rode on the back of other cries. Any vestige of consideration or patience evaporated. Hajjis were throwing stones from far too great a distance; they didn’t strike the symbol of the devil, they landed on their own brothers and sisters. Even those holding off until they got close enough to the pillar had difficulty keeping their balance to aim their stones properly. I, like most of the Hajjis, terrified by now, threw my ammunition quickly, without thinking of the obligatory prayers, or of the deeper significance of the ritual. We were supposed to stand with the Kaaba to our left and Mina to the right, and we were meant to hold the stones between our thumb and index finger, saying a prayer before each throw. But we paid little attention to the rules, our thoughts focussed simply on getting out of this rite alive. None of us resembled Ismail, the fearless son of Ibrahim; we were an army on the run, soldiers shooting their last rounds.
Attempting not to hit anyone I had thrown too hesitantly and hadn’t noticed that I was being pushed further and further to the front. All at once I found myself next to the fenced-off pillar. Stones rained down on my shoulders and my neck. I held up my prayer mat and used it as a shield, using my other hand to push myself away from the fence, to avoid being crushed. I looked around. The fence was around one metre high, and the stones rattled down a funnel and fell through an opening to the street level below – we were on a bridge.
It was certainly easier getting to the stoning than it was getting away. As soon as the Hajjis had thrown their seven stones, they pushed their way through the crowds to the outside, regardless of the consequences. They used their elbows to shove those in front with all their might. They didn’t let others through who were trying to pass sideways, and they struggled to force a path. Everyone grew well-acquainted with the devil within. Perhaps it wasn’t incidental after all that the stones landed on pilgrims – there was more chance of hitting the devil there than in the pillar. Stones that strike the pillar are as rare as good souls, I thought, when at last I could breathe once more at the end of the bridge and my nerves had settled somewhat.
‘The Saudi Project for Utilisation of Sacrificial Animals, managed by the Islamic Development Bank’. A counter, like at a lottery stand. Glossy brochures were scattered around, describing the ultra-modern slaughterhouse, the planned hygiene improvements, and the distribution of meat donations. An efficient employee explained what was on offer: one sheep or a seventh of a camel. He pointed to a display with the names of the countries that would receive meat this year. Half a million animals are slaughtered every year and the meat is donated to over 20 countries – the main beneficiaries this year, as the statistics informed us, were Bangladesh, Jordan and Lebanon. It was up to me to decide where my donation would be sent. I decided in favour of my ‘Slavic brothers and sisters’ in Bosnia, paid $100 and received a coupon that was as intricately inscribed as a share certificate. The second duty of the great feast, Eid al-Adha, was carried out in a flash by the opening of a wallet.
Poor pilgrims collect meat themselves, or can even forgo the sacrifice and instead fast some extra days after the Hajj. Tradition-conscious pilgrims can sacrifice their animal themselves. They have to kill it with a single, swift horizontal slit of the throat and shout out: In the name of Allah, Allah is Great. Oh Allah, this is from me to you, please accept it from me.
But those who perform the sacrifice themselves or fetch the meat, are also only permitted to keep a third of it and must give the rest to those in need, or to relatives and neighbours … and feed the humble beggars and the ashamed poor (22:36).
On the edge of Mina, too far away to visit out of mere curiosity, is the mechanical slaughterhouse, as well as an old-fashioned one for those who want to use their own hands. In the course of the 20th century nothing in the Hajj has changed as drastically as the sacrifice. Richard Burton’s account from 1853 may be viewed as symptomatic for the conditions then:
The whole floor of the valley bore testimony to the filthiest slaughterhouse … swarms of flies. The blood-drenched earth began to stink repulsively. Nothing moved in the sky apart from kites and vultures. Six thousand animals were slaughtered and cut open in this devil’s basin.
Just a few years after Ibn Saud had come to power in 1925, the sanitary conditions could hardly have been better. Harry St. John Philby, a British explorer, who had worked for decades at the court of Abdul Aziz Ibn Saud, informed his readers in 1931:
I missed the sacrificial ceremony this morning, and my personal sacrifice was offered the next day in lieu, but I must add that during the three days in Mina I have seen nothing of the great slaughter or been aware of it in any other unpleasant way. The slaughter is sensibly performed far from the camps of the pilgrims … I saw some sheep heads lying around where they perhaps shouldn’t have been, but otherwise none of the stink or the repulsive sight of sun-roasted putrefaction. The medical authorities have done their work admirably and have been awarded with the lowest number of deaths on the Hajj since accounts were kept.
All I noticed of the slaughter were large pieces of sheep or goat piled up by the open kitchen at the entrance to our camp and later turned into excellent curries in the enormous pots in which two meals were prepared for us each day.
Harry St. John Philby was a witness to a turning point in the history of the Hajj. Back in the 19th century the holy places were still prime breeding grounds for plagues and disease. From 1831, cholera posed terrible problems for the authorities in Mecca. The pilgrims arrived tired and infected, caught it or infected others in Mecca, then dispersed around the world taking the contagion with them. In 1865, 60,000 people died of it in Egypt alone. Pilgrims carried the disease to New York and Guadeloupe, but it wasn’t until 1874 that the cholera epidemic became unstoppable. The streets were a wretched scene, both sides strewn with corpses. Pilgrims trying to reach Jeddah died in the desert or fell ill at the port. They were rounded up in barracks, and food and water were denied to those who had run out of money.
Nowadays, too, pilgrims die of weakness, emaciation, heart attacks or sunstroke, but since the introduction of preventative medicine there have been no further epidemics. There are prophylactic centres everywhere. The Grand Mosque itself has a medical station, and at Jeddah airport you are met by representatives from the Hajj Epidemiological Studies Centre KAIA, and Mina and Arafat also have their own state-of-the-art hospitals.
On foot to Mecca. I walk the six kilometres, as do thousands of others, from Mina to Mecca. After a tawaf and a fresh shave of the head, I will return later that day. Almost the entire road lies in shadow. Pedestrians overtake vehicles stuck in the traffic. Just before Mecca there is a tunnel for pedestrians cut into the rock and in front of it is a small park with lush lawns and some benches. Suddenly laziness is an option and how it differs in character from the tense impatience of the previous days. I have attained the pinnacle of being a pilgrim, and with my legs outstretched I enjoy a sense of happiness and gratitude; my thoughts are simple, it’s the d
ownhill stretch, I don’t need to force myself, I have time and no obligations to fulfil.
The long tunnel looks like a backdrop: all of us, simply clad in white cloth, are on our way to the Last Judgement. Past plain walls under unflattering neon light, each of us barely dragging ourselves along, our own person, the sum of our actions. It was the vision of the subterranean path to the Last Judgement, as though it existed parallel to our own existence – and not just at the end of time. As long as we are alive we are passing through this tunnel, but it is only here, between Mina and Mecca, that we are aware of it.
The tunnel leads us to an unbearably bright light. The Hajjis squint, some of them put on sunglasses, the existence of which I am suddenly reminded of, like the resurfacing of a forgotten name. We were in the centre of Mecca, above the Haram al-Sharif, at a large square, empty save for a few stalls selling prayer beads in every shape and colour.
It seemed like an eternity since I had last seen the Grand Mosque. It was nowhere near as full as when we had left for Mina. While we had been outside Mecca, the kiswah had been changed. As we said our tawaf al-ifadha, the tawaf at the end of the Hajj, we circled seven times around the Kaaba in its new cloth, pure silk. In earlier days the kiswah used to be donated annually by the Caliph or the Egyptian Viceroy who had commissioned it from a family in Cairo, and it was ceremoniously transported by the Egyptian caravan. Nowadays, the border is embroidered with gold thread by hundreds of hands in months of delicate work in Mecca itself, in a workshop specially created for this purpose.
In Mina, as in Mecca, there are hardly any beggars, but the few that were there, were Indian. (‘The Indians, always extreme,’ Richard Burton wrote, ‘are either beggars or millionaires.’) Up until a few years ago beggars from India were imported especially for Ramadan so that the prescribed generosity for that month wouldn’t fail for lack of recipients. The beggars were apparently professionals, organised by human traders according to rules of strict hierarchy. They had to hand over their alms to receive a wage in return of approximately 400 Riyals, the equivalent of £80.
‘Do not be deceived by their ihram,’ an Indian standing next to me said, and sent the beggar I was talking to packing. ‘They are all liars. They claim they are from Kashmir to stir compassion, for every Muslim knows Kashmir. Yesterday one turned to me, he was obviously from India, and he was carrying a child in his arms, a baby just a few months old. The man was begging for help for his child, but the child was black, black as night. It looked more Sudanese. How is that possible? I asked him. Have you ever taken a close look at your child?’
The next day I was addressed in remarkably fluent English, and in a whisper, by a young Indian man. He was a student from Northern India who had been on the road for 40 days and had run out of money. He couldn’t explain to me, however, why he had stayed on in Mecca for so long if he didn’t have the means to do so, and when I reminded him that a Hajji is neither permitted to beg nor to embark on the pilgrimage without sufficient funds, all of a sudden his English expertise disappeared. His discomfort made him depart swiftly after I had translated this well-known commandment into shaky Urdu.
Earlier, in the days before telephones, consulates, Western Union, and other institutions, many pilgrims depended on alms: they had either been robbed or their money had run out.
‘There are all these wretched people in a state of absolute deprivation,’ the Iranian Hajji Kazemzadeh wrote in 1912, ‘lying almost naked by the roadside and trying to seek a little relief in the shade of the bushes, the only vegetation in the desert. Whoever passes by gives these unfortunates, abandoned to the mercy of the sun and sand, something to eat, and occasionally a generous soul takes one on his camel to Mecca.’
The 11th of Dhu al-Hijjah – The Day of the Great Stoning
Badrubhai was praying when I entered the tent. His head was swinging rhythmically from one side to the other, the words were pronounced with precision and terrific emphasis; his voice came from deep within his chest.
‘Show me this prayer,’ I asked him when he moved from his seated position and stretched out on his blanket.
‘I can’t teach it to you, you are not advanced enough yet,’ he said, but then he explained it to me nonetheless: ‘The prayer begins in the heart. You have to cleanse your heart of everything apart from Allah. Start with the Laa ilaaha [there is no God], let your chin sink to the left, and press it down firmly to the left side to drive away the sins which have settled as stains in your heart, and while you do this say illallah [apart from God]. You have to repeat it 200 times, followed by just illallah 400 times, and finally 600 Allahu Allah. But you shouldn’t practice this zikr, it is for the advanced. You have to start small. In the first class. You have to speak the Bismillah and Subhanallah 100 times a day. For a whole year. Then you can progress to the more difficult prayers. Otherwise the zikr won’t work, because you won’t perform it properly. It might even have an adverse effect. It will take a while until you reach my level. I’m in the ninth class. The 10th is the last. I can tell you, I’ve already reached the semi-final.’
The zikr with Badrubhai the next morning was to be one of the highlights of my Hajj. The best time for zikr was early in the morning, he explained to me, when Allah is in the first of the seven heavens and listening to those who need help. After fajr we sat down cross-legged next to each other, prayer beads in hand. Badrubhai signalled the start of prayer, slowly to begin with, as though he were feeling his way along the path we were to take, his voice soft and his upper body scarcely moving; Laa ilaaha sounded almost like a question, and illallaah was placed carefully, before it moved forward with increasing speed. Everything increased – volume, movement, emphasis – until we were following a rhythm of trance, a chorale with a crescendo, cut free of time and unanchored to any thoughts. Our zikr had lasted almost an hour, I realised. I felt invigorated and happy. It made me think of the proclamation of the great al-Ghazali: ‘Music, rhythmic and soothing, brings us light that opens the heart, reveals beauty and imperfection.’ In other words: music and rhythm are divine.
Once you’ve started with zikr, Badrubhai warned me, you’ll never stop. Not even when you’re travelling. The zikr that we’ve been praying, is just a watered down, a shorter, version of the true zikr. Out of consideration for others, for our neighbours who might have gone back to sleep. Our Prophet Mohammad, Sallallahu alaihi wa-sallam, says, we should always be careful that our prayers never disturb anyone else. It is very important to reveal your feelings during zikr. If you shed a tear, a single tear, this tear can lessen the hell-fire. I can say that zikr is an remedy against hypocrisy. Later, much later, you’ll learn to say the zikr in silence – with your heart alone. And the highest stage is when you carry Allah’s name in your every breath as you go about your daily chores, as you are talking as I am talking to you now. Then you won’t need your prayer beads anymore, Allah and breathing are one. Through zikr you’ll merge with Allah. He is in you when you think of him. If you inch towards him by the width of a hand, he’ll approach the length of an elbow. If you approach him the length of an elbow, he’ll take a step towards you. If you walk towards him, he’ll run towards you.
Whosoever eats well should think of the poor.
Whoever is dressed well should think of his own funeral.
Whoever lives in good houses should think of the grave.
Tired figures drag themselves through the heat. The strain is beginning to show; the street hawkers croak out scarcely audible vending cries. A faded weariness lies in the air. Several floors of the bathing house next to the Kaif Mosque with its hundreds of cabins were taken over by Hajjis who let the water run for a long time over their exhausted bodies. Some of them put on their local clothes afterwards, others stayed in the ihram. Now that the Hajj was over I became aware of a new symbolism linked to the two white cloths: it pointed at our own deaths. One day, each of us Hajjis would lie wrapped in this in our graves. It was the only thing we’d take on our final journey. On that day, exhausted and
drained by the sun, it was a comforting thought.
In the Kaif Mosque itself, an area of more than 10,000 square metres was heaving as though it were a campsite: pilgrims were eating, dozing, chatting between their bundles and bags. In Burkhardt’s time, too, many people set up camp in this mosque, and strung up intestines from the columns on which they’d hang the freshly slaughtered meat to dry. The hamburger being consumed next to me seemed harmless in comparison.
Just as the sacred penetrates the mundane for the duration of the Hajj, so too does the profane creep into the religious sphere, until the two are separated only by the call to prayer, like a momentary switch of priority. After the night-time prayer the prayer room turns into a dormitory for figures shrouded in white.
Having scarcely made it through the first day of stoning, and having experienced considerable fear, I was not looking forward to the second. In the day of the great stoning, all three pillars are attacked and the patience of the crowds is thrice tested. Late the previous evening I had walked to the pillars and inspected the area like a course that was to be tackled the next day. The best area seemed to be beneath the bridge at ground level where the flood of pilgrims wouldn’t be trapped in a bottleneck. My supposition was proven true the next day; indeed, there were fewer pilgrims making for the pillars, but their behaviour was no more moderate. The irrational longing, the unnecessary rush and the aggression that the people vented towards the pillars was at a similar pitch, intensifying through repetition. A woman next to me with a fierce look on her face fired one stone after the other, showing no consideration to those present as she dealt other pilgrims sharp blows with her right elbow. Near the second pillar a steady stream of victims were being treated by four ambulances – circulatory collapse and superficial wounds. A man came towards me with a round, bloodied bandage over his left eye.
Mumbai to Mecca Page 7